THE  RUSSIAN  THEATRE 


OLIVER  M.  SAYLER 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


) 


s 


The  Russian  Theatre 


By 

Oliver  M.  Sayler 

Author  of  "RUSSIA  WHITE  OR  RED,"  etc. 


With  Illustrations 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

Publishers 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
BRENTANO'S 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 

First  Printing,  November,  1W* 
Second  Printing,  January,  19?S 


PBJNT1D    IN    TH»    UNITED    STATES   OF    AMKHJCA 


College 
Library 


TO 

flfcotbcr 

WHO   SPED   ME  COURAGEOUSLY 
ON   MY  ADVENTURE 


INTRODUCTION 

In  writing  about  the  theatre  nothing  today  is  more 
appropriate  than  the  explanation  of  Russian  art. 
That  art,  carried  far  by  enthusiasm  and  noble  stand- 
ards, is  happily  better  known  to  us  than  it  was.  The 
American  mind,  let  us  trust,  becomes  every  year  more 
worthy  to  receive  it. 

If  there  is  in  our  country  a  critic  as  fitted  as  Mr. 
Sayler  to  discuss  this  art,  I  know  him  not.  The  book 
that  follows  is  informed,  its  spirit  moves  ever  on  a 
high  level,  its  judgments  seem  to  me  unvaryingly  cor- 
rect, and  the  ripe  simplicity  of  the  style  is  a  suitable 
vehicle  for  the  message. 

The  book  is  worthy  to  present  to  our  people  the 
most  energetic  and  intense  stage  that,  in  over  a  century, 
mankind  has  anywhere  produced. 

NORMAN  HAPGOOD 


vu 


PREFACE 

to 

THE  SECOND  EDITION 

With  the  exhaustion  of  the  First  Edition  of  this 
work  and  the  necessity  for  a  new  printing  to  meet 
the  continuing  and  steadily  increasing  demand  for 
information  concerning  a  theatre  which  looms  ever 
larger  on  our  own  stage,  I  am  faced  by  three  alter- 
natives :  either  to  go  to  press  again  in  the  original  form, 
or  to  prepare  an  entirely  new  manuscript,  or  to  amplify 
the  original  in  such  a  way  as  to  bring  it  up  to  date 
and  establish  contact  between  it  and  a  situation  which 
has  brought  the  Russian  theatre  emphatically  into  the 
foreground  of  our  dramatic  vision. 

The  first  course  would  have  dodged  patent  responsi- 
bilities; the  second  would  have  entailed  useless  re- 
wording of  a  story  which  in  outline,  detail  and  interpre- 
tation still  stands  as  true  today  as  when  it  was  written. 
I  have,  therefore,  adopted  the  third  plan.  Leaving 
the  original  record  untouched  as  the  only  thorough 
chronicle  in  English  of  the  foremost  dramatic  move- 
ment of  our  time,  gathered  under  vivid  and  pictur- 
esque conditions,  I  have  added  to  it  an  exhaustive 
survey  of  the  events  and  phenomena  of  Russian  stages 

ix 


Preface 

during  the  last  four  years,  an  analysis  and  interpreta- 
tion of  those  activities,  a  resume  not  only  of  the  cur- 
rent Russian  invasion  of  our  theatre  but  of  the  back- 
grounds and  antecedents  of  that  invasion,  and  finally 
a  word  on  the  spirit  underlying  this  entire  movement 
especially  as  it  appears  in  the  guise  of  preceptor  to 
our  own  dramatic  renaissance. 

If  in  its  modest  way  the  First  Edition  of  this  work 
was  instrumental  in  stimulating  American  curiosity 
concerning  the  Russian  theatre  and  in  making  smooth 
by  anticipatory  interpretation  the  path  of  its  advent 
in  force  on  our  stage,  perhaps  the  present  reissue  in 
revised  and  enlarged  form  will  encounter  a  public 
opinion  that  has  learned  to  distinguish  between  the 
eternal  and  the  ephemeral  aspects  of  the  Russian 

scene  and  will  serve  even  more  fully  to  establish  that 

/ 

permanent  contact  between  the  dramatic  activities  of 
the  two  countries  which  is  essential  to  the  richest  fru- 
ition of  both  our  own  theatre  and  the  Russian. 

Convinced  by  experience  that  I  was  justified  in 
rejecting  current  usage  in  many  cases  in  the  spelling 
of  Russian  proper  names,  I  have  retained  throughout 
the  style  adopted  in  the  original  text.  Translitera- 
tions arriving  roundabout  by  way  of  French  and  Ger- 
man lead  to  inaccuracies  of  pronunciation  in  English. 
I  have  found  that  the  literal  indication  of  the  Russian 
pronunciation,  independent  of  arbitrary  rules  and  as 
simply  and  accurately  in  each  case  as  our  alphabet 
will  permit,  greatly  obviates  the  terrors  of  terminol- 

x 


Preface 

ogy.  I  have  accepted  custom,  however,  in  utilizing 
Chauve-Souris,  the  French  title  of  BaliefFs  Letutchaya 
Muish  which  has  been  retained  as  well  in  America, 
wherever  I  refer  to  the  reincarnation  of  The  Bat  of 
Moscow  outside  Russian  boundaries.  In  every  case, 
I  have  brought  Russian  dates  into  conformity  with  our 
own  calendar. 

In  giving  the  new  edition  a  more  appropriate  format 
and  richer  illustrative  value,  I  have  assumed  obliga- 
tions which  deserve  acknowledgment  here.  The  in- 
signia on  the  cover,  combining  the  devices  of  three  of 
the  most  important  Russian  theatres,  and  the  design 
for  the  end  papers  are  the  work  of  Lucie  R.  Sayler. 
For  the  use  of  the  color  plates  of  the  frontispiece, 
Benois's  "Petrushka" ;  and  of  Roerich's  "Prince  Igor," 
I  am  indebted  to  Kenneth  Macgowan,  author  of  "The 
Theatre  of  Tomorrow,"  and  his  publishers,  Boni  and 
Liveright.  The  other  color  plates  as  well  as  that  used 
on  the  jacket  are  the  loan  of  Nikita  Balieff,  Morris 
Gest  and  BaliefFs  artists,  Sergei  Sudeykin  and  Nicolas 
Remisoff.  Numerous  half  tone  engravings  have  been 
added  to  the  new  edition  through  the  kindness  of 
Theatre  Arts  Magazine. 

I  am  glad  once  more  to  express  my  gratitude  to  the 
editors  of  The  Bookman,  Vanity  Fair,  the  Boston 
Evening  Transcript  and  The  Indianapolis  News  for 
permission  to  reprint  portions  of  the  material  in  this 
volume. 

Nor  can  I  refrain  from  mentioning  again  the  eager 

xi 


Preface 

and  enthusiastic  assistance  of  Giorgi  and  Andrei 
Weber,  elder  sons  of  my  Moscow  host  and  interpreters 
to  me  of  their  country's  speech,  impulse  and  imagina- 
tion. On  the  threshold  of  brilliant  careers,  they  had 
both  fallen  fatal  victims  of  social  strife  on  battlefield 
and  aboard  ship  within  two  years  after  I  bade  them 
farewell.  And  finally,  my  debt  to  the  artists  of  the 
Russian  theatre  themselves  for  aid  in  gathering  the 
record  of  their  labors  is  too  great  to  estimate.  To 
them,  I  assign  whatever  credit  inheres  in  the  arrival 
of  this  work  at  its  Second  Edition. 

OLIVER  M.  SAYLER 
New  York  City, 
October,  1922 


xii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB 

INTRODUCTION vii 

PREFACE  TO  SECOND  EDITION ix 

I    PLAYS  WITHIN  A  PLAY I 

II    THE  WORLD'S   FIRST   THEATRE 13 

III  "THE  BLUE  BIRD"  AND  STANISLAVSKY  .     .     .  31 

IV  THE  PLAYS  OF  TCHEHOFF  AT  THE  ART  THEATRE  45 

V    FROM    TURGENIEFF    TO    GORKY    AT    THE   ART 

THEATRE 64 

VI  THE  STUDIOS  OF  THE  Moscow  ART  THEATRE  .     80 

VII  THE  RUSSIAN  BALLET  IN  ITS  OWN  HOME  .      .     95 

VIII  THE  DEEPER  ROOTS  OF  THE  RUSSIAN  THEATRE  119 

IX  THE  KAMERNY,  A  THEATRE  OF  REVOLT  .     .      .  135 

X  "SALOME"  IN  CUBIST  VESTURE 152 

XI    A   BACCHANALE   AND   SOME   OTHERS   AT  THE 

KAMERNY         163 

XII  HERE  AND  THERE  IN  Moscow  THEATRES  .     .  180 

XIII  MEYERHOLD  AND  THE  THEATRE  THEATRICAL   .  202 

XIV  YEVREYNOFF  AND  MONODRAMA 221 

XV  RUSSIAN  THEORIES  OF  THE  THEATRE   .     .     .  245 

XVI  THE  PATH  OF  STORM 262 

XVII  PLUS    CA    CHANGE 286 

XVIII  THE  RUSSIAN  THEATRE  IN  AMERICA   .     .     .  297 

XIX  THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  RUSSIAN  THEATRE  .     .     .325 

INDEX .  33i 

xiii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN  COLOR 

Alexander  Benois'  design  for  the  setting  of  the  third 
act  of  "Petrushka,"  peak  of  the  Diagileff  repertory 
and  of  the  entire  Russian  Ballet,  with  score  by 
Stravinsky Frontispiece 

TACINQ  PAGB 

Nicolas  Roerich's  design  for  the  Polovtsian  camp  in 
Borodin's  opera,  "Prince  Igor,"  used  by  Diagileff  for 
the  ballet  from  the  opera 102 

Sergei  Sudeykin's  design  for  "Katinka,"  the  pert  and 
picturesque  polka  of  Balieff's  Chauve-Souris,  done  in 
the  style  of  the  music  boxes  carved  and  decorated  by 
the  muzhik 298 

Nicolas  Remisoff's  design  for  "The  Sudden  Death  of 
a  Horse,  or  The  Greatness  of  the  Russian  Soul,"  a 
whimsical  farce  by  Anton  Tchehoff  in  the  repertory 
of  Balieff's  Chauve-Souris 318 

IN  HALF-TONE 

Facade  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 4 

The  Small  State  Theatre,  Moscow,  home  of  the  classic 
drama  4 

The  Alexandrinsky  Theatre,  Petrograd,  with  the  monu- 
ment to  Catherine  II  in  the  foreground  ....  5 

Vladimir  Ivanovitch  Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko,  Pres- 
ident of  the  Direction,  Moscow  Art  Theatre  .  .  22 

Constantin  Sergeievitch  Stanislavsky,  First  Artist  and 
President  of  the  Council,  Moscow  Art  Theatre  .  .  22 

Vassily  Ivanovitch  Katchaloff,  Olga  Leonardovna  Knip- 
per  and  Ivan  Mihailovitch  Moskvin,  leading  players 
of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 23 

"The  Blue  Bird"  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  "The 
Farewell" 34 

Nikolai  Fyodorovitch  Kolin,  Olga  Vladimirovna  Bak- 
lanova  and  Mihail  Alexandrovitch  Tchehoff,  nephew 

xv 


List  of  Illustrations 


FACING     PAQB 

of  the  playwright,  leading  players  trained  in  the 
First  Studio  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  ....  35 

A  scene  from  Act  II  of  Tchehoff's  "The  Cherry  Or- 
chard" at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 46 

The  Climax  of  Act  III  in  Tchehoff's  "The  Cherry  Or- 
chard" at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 47 

The  final  moments  of  Act  IV  of  Tchehoff's  "Uncle 
Vanya,"  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 58 

Stanislavsky  in  two  of  his  favorite  roles  at  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre,  Gaieff  in  Tchehoff's  "The  Cherry  Or- 
chard" and  Colonel  Vershinin  in  Tchehoff's  "The 
Three  Sisters" 59 

A  scene  in  Act  I  of  Maxim  Gorky's  masterpiece,  "The 
Lower  Depths,"  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  Stanis- 
lavsky in  the  role  of  Satine  sits  on  the  table  ...  66 

A  scene  in  Act  III  of  Turgenieffs  romantic  comedy  "A 
Month  in  the  Country,"  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre. 
Stanislavsky  as  Rakitin  and  Knipper  as  Mme.  Islaieva 
in  the  center 67 

From  regal  splendor  to  ragged  misery  at  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre.  A  corner  in  the  old  Kremlin  Palace, 
a  scene  from  Act  V  of  Count  Alexei  Tolstoy's  "Tsar 
Fyodor  Ivanovitch";  a  scene  from  Act  III,  "The 
Waste,"  in  Maxim  Gorky's  "The  Lower  Depths"  .  76 

The  lobby  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  tempting  prom- 
enade for  the  visitor  during  intermissions,  with  pan- 
eled panorama  of  playwrights  of  all  countries  and 
past  productions  of  the  theatre 77 

Caleb  Plummer's  toy  shop  in  Act  II  of  "The  Cricket 
on  the  Hearth,"  at  the  First  Studio  of  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre.  Tchehoff  as  Plummer;  Solovyova  as 
Bertha;  and  Vakhtangoff  as  Tackleton  ....  84 

Two  scenes  from  "Twelfth  Night"  at  the  First  Studio 
of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  Baklanova  as  Olivia 
and  Suhatcheva  as  Viola  .........  85 

The  Great  State  Theatre,  Moscow,  and  the  Marinsky 
Theatre,  Petrograd,  the  two  homes  of  the  Russian 
ballet  and  opera 96 

Anderson,  Kandaourova  and  Gorshkova,  of  the  ballet, 
Moscow 97 

Mihail  Mordkin  and  Margarita  Froman  in  the  ballet 
"Aziade,"  staged  by  Mordkin  .  .  .  .  .  .  .no 

Zhukoff  and  Mile.  Reyzen,  reigning  stars  of  the  ballet 

xvi 


List  of  Illustrations 


FACING  PAG! 

at  the  Great  State  Theatre,  Moscow in 

Prince  Alexander  Ivanovitch  Sumbatoff  (Youzhin), 
Director  of  the  Small  State  Theatre,  Moscow  .  .  122 

Prince  Sumbatoff  as  Shylock  in  "The  Merchant  of 
Venice" 122 

A  scene  in  Act  I  of  Griboyedoff  s  "The  Sorrows  of  the 
Spirit,"  at  the  Small  State  Theatre,  Moscow  .  .  .  123 

Alexander  Yakovlevitch  Tairoff,  Director  of  the  Ka- 
merny  Theatre,  Moscow  .  146 

Henri  Forterre,  composer  of  the  music  for  the  Ka- 
merny  Theatre,  Moscow 146 

The  curtain  of  the  Kamerny  Theatre,  Moscow,  designed 
by  the  Cubist  artist,  Alexandra  Exter,  of  Kieff  .  .  147 

Three  costume  designs  by  Alexandra  Exter  for  the 
Cubist  production  of  Oscar  Wilde's  "Salome"  at  the 
Kamerny  Theatre,  Moscow 160 

Alice  Giorgievna  Koonen  as  Salome  in  the  Cubist  pro- 
duction of  Oscar  Wilde's  tragedy  at  the  Kamerny 
Theatre,  Moscow 161 

The  satyrs  carry  off  the  menads  in  the  bacchanale, 
"Thamira  of  the  Cithern,"  at  the  Kamerny  Theatre, 
Moscow 168 

A  scene  from  Lotar's  "King  Harlequin,"  at  the  Ka- 
merny Theatre,  Moscow 169 

Fyodor  Kommissarzhevsky,  Director  of  the  theatre  in 
memory  of  his  sister,  the  great  actress,  Vera  Kommis- 
sarzhevskaya 196 

N.  F.  Balieff,  Russia's  great  artist-clown,  and  founder 
of  Letutchaya  Muish,  the  Chauve-Souris,  or  The  Bat, 
Moscow's  super-cabaret 196 

A  scene  from  Maxim  Gorky's  short  play,  "Mother," 
at  Balieff's  Letutchaya  Muish  or  The  Bat,  Moscow  .  197 

Alexander  Yakovlevitch  Golovin,  painter,  and  Vsevolod 
Emilyevitch  Meyerhold,  regisseur.  in  the  green  room 
of  the  Alexandrinsky  Theatre,  Petrograd  .  .  .  208 

Two  scene  designs  by  Golovin  for  Meyerhold's  produc- 
tion of  the  opera,  <"The  Stone  Guest,"  text  by  Push- 
kin and  score  by  Dargomuizhsky,  at  the  Marinsky 
Theatre,  Petrograd 209 

Two  portraits  of  Nikolai  Nikolaievitch  Yevreynoff, 
playwright,  producer  and  proponent  of  monodrama  .  232 

A  scene  design  by  the  artist,  N.  I.  Kulbin,  for  Act  II 

xvii 


List  of  Illustrations 


FACING    FA(!K 

of  the  monodrama,  "The  Representation  of  Love,"  by 
Nikolai   Nikolaievitch   Yevreynoff 233 

"Romeo  and  Juliet"  in  Cubist  guise  at  the  Kamerny 
Theatre,  Moscow,  with  setting  and  costumes  designed 
by  Alexandra  Exter  in  style  similar  t6  her  "Salome"  272 

Racine's  "Phedre"  on  the  stage  of  the  Kamerny  Theatre, 
Moscow,  with  Alice  Giorgievna  Koonen  as  Phedre 
and  with  monumental  modernist  settings  and  costumes 
designed  by  Viesnin 273 

Plus  c.a  change.  The  tovarishch  of  the  Red  Army  dis- 
places the  Black  Hussar  in  the  ballet  dressing  room  288 

"The  Nightingale,"  a  lyric  fairy  tale  from  the  story  by 
Hans  Christian  Andersen,  at  the  First  State  Theatre 
for  Children,  Moscow,  with  setting  designed  by  T.  S. 
Fedotoff 289 

Robert  Edmond  Jones'  design  for  the  scene  at  the 
gypsies'  house  in  Arthur  Hopkins'  production  of 
Count  Lyoff  Tolstoy's  "Redemption"  ("The  Living 
Corpse") 302 

The  final  scene  in  the  Theatre  Guild's  production  of 
Count  Lyoff  Tolstoy's  "The  Power  of  Darkness," 
from  design  by  Lee  Simonson 303 

Morris  Gest,  dramatic  ambassador  from  the  Russian 
theatre  to  the  American,  and  his  friend,  Fyodor 
Ivanovitch  Shaliapin,  Russia's  and  the  world's  great- 
est opera  singer 320 

Otto  H.  Kahn,  Maecenas  of  the  Russian  theatre  in 
America 321 

Sergei  Sudeykin's  design  for  "The  Moscow  Fiances," 
one  of  the  favored  numbers  of  Balieff's  Chauve- 
Souris 326 

"The  Parade  of  the  Wooden  Soldiers,"  most  phenom- 
enal success  of  Balieff's  Chauve-Souris  in  America. 
Design  by  Nicolas  Remisoff  after  Narbout  ....  327 


XVlll 


THE  RUSSIAN  THEATRE 


CHAPTER  I 
PLAYS  WITHIN  A  PLAY 

IT  wasn't  a  promising  prospect  for  a  winter  of  calm 
consideration  of  the  Russian  theatre,  as  I  sat  one  morn- 
ing in  November,  1917,  in  the  Yaroslavl  station  in 
Moscow  on  the  bench  which  had  been  my  couch  the 
preceding  night.  Down  by  the  Kremlin  the  big  guns 
had  been  booming  ever  since  my  journey  across  Si- 
beria had  come  to  an  end  the  previous  afternoon. 
Out  on  the  street  in  front  of  the  station  the  rattle  of 
small  arms  rose  and  fell  with  all  the  realism  of  a  well- 
staged  western  melodrama.  Evidently  I  was  to  have 
my  fill  of  drama  in  the  raw  and  out-of-doors  if  not 
within  the  confines  of  Aristotle  and  the  four  walls  of 
a  theatre. 

Somewhat  in  the  spirit  of  the  defeated  candidate 
who  buys  the  cold  gray  newspapers  the  dawn  of  the 
morning  after  election,  I  had  counted  out  my  postage- 
stamp  kopecks  at  the  station  news  stand  in  payment 
for  the  latest  copies  of  The  Theatrical  Gazette  and 
The  Theatre  and  Art,  weekly  journalistic  records  re- 

I 


The  Russian  Theatre 


spectively  of  the  stages  of  Moscow  and  Petrograd. 
It  didn't  help  much  to  turn  the  pages  and  figure  out 
what  plays  I  could  have  seen  if  the  Bolsheviki  hadn't 
been  so  prompt  in  starting  their  revolution.  I  could 
have  heard  Shaliapin  sing  in  Petrograd.  I  could  have 
seen  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  and  "  The  Cherry  Orchard  " 
and  "  The  Village  Stepantchikovo  ",  a  play  made  from 
untranslated  Dostoievsky,  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre. 
I  could  have  seen  Oscar  Wilde's  "  Salome  "  in  cubist 
dress  at  the  Kamerny.  I  could  have  seen  Mordkin 
dance  at  the  Theatre  of  the  Soviet  of  Workmen's 
Deputies.  But  the  Soviet  had  decided  to  produce  an 
impromptu  pageant  of  its  own  in  the  streets  of  Mos- 
cow. And  the  Soviet  brooks  no  competition! 

I  had  only  myself  to  blame  if  I  was  not  satisfied 
with  my  lot.  There  was  no  evidence  in  distant  Ameri- 
ca that  the  Russian  theatre  had  survived  three  years 
of  war  and  six  months  of  half-revolution.  It  had 
not  survived  significantly  in  orderly  England  or  in 
sobered  France  or  even  in  neutral  New  York.  With 
us  and  with  the  western  Europeans,  war  revealed  our 
theatre  only  too  clearly  as  a  luxury,  a  pastime  and  an 
industry.  But  I  thought  I  knew  the  Russians  and  the 
fundamental  demand  of  the  Russian  spirit  for  artis- 
tic expression.  I  knew  from  the  testimony  of  Gordon 
Craig  and  others  that  Moscow  and  Petrograd  had 
carried  the  modern  theatre  to  its  finest  achievement. 
And  I  feared  that  no  achievement,  however  funda- 
mental, could  survive  indefinitely  the  cataclysm  of  the 
social  revolution  which  from  the  start  hung  ominously 

2 


Plays  Within  a  Play 


in  the  offing  of  the  political  revolution.  If  I  wished 
to  snatch  a  brand  from  the  ashes,  I  must  go  and  go  at 
once.  Yet,  with  all  this  faith,  there  were  times  on  the 
long  journey  the  wrong  way  round  the  world  when  I 
mistrusted  my  mission.  After  I  had  confided  it  to  a 
few  fellow  travelers  and  had  wilted  under  their  dubi- 
ous gaze,  I  decided  to  keep  my  own  counsel  and  con- 
serve my  confidence. 

Reassurance  came  after  I  had  burned  my  bridges 
behind  me.  "  The  Russian  theatres  ?  Certainly  they 
are  running,"  said  my  cabin  companion  on  the  bob-tailed 
little  Japanese  craft  which  carried  me  from  Tsuruga  to 
Vladivostok.  He  was  a  Russian  engineer,  homeward 
bound.  "  You  may  be  disappointed  in  them,"  he  said, 
with  the  self-abasement  of  the  Slav.  "  Stanislavsky 
has  carried  realism  to  its  pole  at  the  Art  Theatre  in 
Moscow,  and  Meyerhold  has  developed  theatricality  to 
the  opposite  extreme  in  Petrograd,  and  neither  has 
created  anything  really  new  in  the  theatre."  Still,  to 
perfect  the  old  was  something,  and,  besides,  what  the 
theatre  needs  is  not  so  much  something  new  as  a  re- 
discovery of  the  old. 

During  a  bloody  week  of  violent  civil  strife  and  an- 
other week  of  nervous  uncertainty  after  Kerensky's 
forces  in  the  Kremlin  had  capitulated,  the  prospect  of 
studying  the  Russian  theatre  was  dark  enough.  There 
were  other  problems  to  solve,  such  as  the  question  of 
a  roof  and  sustenance,  but  each  day  I  watched  the 
hoardings  and  the  bulletin  boards  on  the  doors  of  the 
Art  Theatre  for  an  announcement  of  reopening.  Life 

3 


The  Russian  Theatre 


began  to  resume  the  normal.  The  newspapers  reap- 
peared. Two  or  three  of  the  tram  lines  were  repaired 
and  started  running.  Here  and  there  a  telephone 
stirred  from  sleep.  And  the  isvoshchiks  slunk  back  into 
the  city  with  their  droshkies  from  their  hiding  places  in 
the  country.  Just  two  weeks  after  my  arrival,  the  di- 
rectors of  the  Kamerny  ventured  to  unlock  the  doors  to 
this  curious  and  intriguing  haunt  of  the  futurists  and 
kindred  experimenters.  And  I  started  my  Russian 
theatregoing  with  the  cubist  "  Salome  "  about  which  I 
had  read  that  first  morning  in  the  station. 

Mystery  and  silence  still  shrouded  the  Art  Theatre. 
Should  it  persist  or  should  it  yield?  Counsels  were 
divided.  Without  it,  my  survey  would  be  as  incom- 
plete as  a  Russian  meal  without  a  samovar.  Finally 
on  Thanksgiving  Day  I  found  the  office  inhabited  and 
presented  my  letters  of  introduction  from  Maurice 
Browne  and  others  to  Stanislavsky,  first  artist  of  the 
theatre,  and  to  Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko,  whose  funds 
and  facility  in  finding  others  made  the  Art  Theatre  a 
substantial  institution  even  in  its  early  days  of  struggle. 
Neither  was  in  the  building.  But  the  season  would 
be  resumed  the  following  Tuesday.  The  repertory 
had  just  been  completed.  Would  I  car-  to  come  to 
"The  Blue  Bird"  in  the  afternoon  or  to  TchehorFs 
"The  Three  Sisters"  in  the  evening?  Both?  I  must 
be  very  American,  indeed,  to  go  to  the  theatre  twice  in 
the  same  day.  The  next  evening  I  probably  wouldn't 
care  to  see  "  The  Village  Stepantchikovo."  It  was  ob- 
scure and  very  Russian.  Perhaps  later  in  the  winter. 

4 


FACADE  OF  THE  MOSCOW  ART  THEATRE  IN  KAMERGERSKY 
PEREULOK 


THE  SMALL  STATE  THEATRE,  MOSCOW,  HOME  OF  THE  CLASSIC 


Photograph  l,y  the  Author 

THE  ALEXANDRIN8KY  THEATRE,  PETROGRAD,  WITH  THK  MONU- 
MENT TO  CATHERINE  II  IN  THE  FOREGROUND 


Plays  Within  a  Play 


Nor  "  The  Lower  Depths "  of  Gorky  the  following 
Sunday  afternoon.  Stanislavsky  would  not  play  his 
role  of  Satine.  But  he  would  on  toward  the  holidays. 
"  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  of  Tchehoff  that  evening,  if 
I  liked.  He  would  be  in  the  cast  then.  And  so  it 
went  through  another  hour  or  two  of  the  most  gra- 
cious attention,  while  I  should  have  been  scouting  for 
the  ghost  of  a  Thanksgiving  dinner  in  the  restaurants 
of  Moscow.  But  the  day  had  justified  its  name ! 

To  sketch  sharply  the  astonishing  picture  of  the 
Russian  theatre  under  the  Revolution,  I  know  of  no 
better  way  than  to  tabulate  the  range  of  choice  in 
the  repertory  of  the  Moscow  theatres  that  first  day  af- 
ter their  enforced  vacation :  At  the  Art  Theatre,  "  The 
Blue  Bird  "  and  "  The  Three  Sisters."  At  the  Great 
State  Theatre,  the  home  of  the  opera  and  the  ballet, 
"  Aida."  At  the  Small  State  Theatre,  the  home  of  the 
classic  drama,  Griboyedoff's  "  Gore  ot  Uma  " ,  a  title 
which  defies  translation  but  which  I  like  to  paraphrase 
as  "  The  Sorrows  of  the  Spirit."  At  the  Kamerny,  a 
passionate  tragedy  of  the  Persian  hinterland,  "  The 
Azure  Carpet "  by  Liuboff  Stolitsa.  At  Kommissar- 
zhevsky's  Theatre,  "  The  Comedy  of  Alexei  "  by  Kuz- 
min  and  "  Requiem  "  by  Andreieff.  At  the  Theatre 
of  the  Soviet  of  Workmen's  Deputies,  once  the  Zimina 
Opera,  "  La  Boheme  "  and  Taneyeff's  "  Orestes."  At 
the  Theatre  Korsha,  Tolstoy's  terrifying  picture  of  the 
Russian  peasant,  "  The  Power  of  Darkness."  At  the 
Moscow  Dramatic  Theatre,  Merezhkovsky's  "  Paul  I." 
And  at  the  super-variety  of  Balieff,  Letutchaya  Mulsh 

5 


The  Russian  Theatre 


or  The  Bat,  Gogol's  "  Ivan  Ivanovitch  and  Ivan  Niki- 
forovitch  "  among  many  other  sketches  and  interludes. 
This,  it  might  be  supposed,  was  a  holiday  repertory, 
a  thank  offering  for  the  return  of  civil  peace  if  not  in 
honor  of  the  proletarian  victors.  Not  so.  Any  day 
throughout  the  rest  of  the  winter,  except  on  the  relig- 
ious holidays  when  all  the  theatres  and  shops  were 
closed,  a  similar  range  of  choice  was  possible.  Some- 
times the  titles  were  not  so  familiar  to  a  foreigner, 
sometimes  more  so.  For  Shakespeare  and  Dickens  and 
Wilde  as  well  as  the  better  known  Russian  playwrights 
were  freely  represented.  On  through  the  great  demon- 
strations for  and  against  the  Government,  on  through 
the  days  of  the  German  advance  and  the  Peace  Con- 
gress, the  theatre  held  to  its  course,  —  the  most  normal 
of  all  the  Russian  institutions,  the  only  one  to  reflect 
any  of  the  glory  of  the  elder  days.  On  it  went,  undis- 
turbed, through  pillage  and  murder  and  anarchy.  From 
November  to  March,  in  the  course  of  eighty-seven  visits 
to  the  Russian  theatre,  I  never  went  home  after  the 
final  curtain  a  single  night  in  either  Moscow  or  Petro- 
grad  without  hearing  firing  across  the  city  or  just 
around  the  corner.  Late  in  January  while  the  snow 
in  Theatre  Place  two  blocks  away  was  stained  scarlet 
with  blood,  I  sat  in  the  Art  Theatre.  The  play  was 
Gorky's  "The  Lower  Depths."  All  the  great  ones, 
Stanislavsky  and  Katchaloff  and  the  rest,  were  in  the 
cast.  The  performance  was  the  most  terribly  moving 
of  my  whole  winter  in  the  Russian  theatre.  Along 
with  the  other  hundreds  in  that  crowded  playhouse, 

6 


Plays  Within  a  Play 


my  body  was  torn  with  hunger  and  my  soul  flayed  with 
sickness  and  pity  and  despair.  Yet  there  we  sat,  will- 
ingly, eagerly,  plunging  the  knife  of  spiritual  torture 
still  deeper  in  the  wound. 

Sometimes  I  think  that  is  the  surest  explanation  why 
the  Russian  theatre  has  persisted  through  the  days  of 
anxiety  and  the  Terror.  Out  of  their  sorrows  the 
Russians  have  builded  all  their  art.  And  in  the  days 
of  their  profoundest  gloom,  they  return  to  it  for  the 
consolation  which  nothing  else  affords. 

To  the  Russian,  the  theatre  is  not  a  refuge  for  idle 
amusement.  Even  in  the  piping  times  before  the  war 

—  and  what  a  life  it  must  have  been  then  in  Moscow! 

—  the  typical  form  of  lighter  mummery  had  the  thrust 
of  intellect  and  the  stimulus  of  wit  to  lift  it  from  an- 
imal inanity.     Balieff,  at  Letutchaya  Muish,  poked  his 
addled  smile  and  then  his  pudgy  body  through  the  cur- 
tains between  the  numbers  of  his  variety  programme, 
and  for  five  or  fifteen  minutes  sparred  with  any  one 
who  dared  risk  the  game  in  lightning  flashes  of  give 
and  take.     Balieff  still  sparred  after  the  Revolution, 
although  most  of  his  imitators  straggled  on  the  edge 
of  failure  and  one  by  one  closed  their  doors.     Even  he 
has  had  to  fight  against  insuperable  odds.     It  is  not 
easy  to  smile  and  play  with  words  while  the  world  is 
toppling. 

The  Russian  theatre  has  persisted,  therefore,  not  be- 
cause it  is  a  relief  from  life,  an  underground  retreat 
where  one  could  escape  the  agonies  and  the  duties  and 
the  burdens  of  life.  To  the  Russian,  the  theatre  is 

7 


The  Russian  Theatre 


rather  a  microcosmos,  a  concentration  and  an  expla- 
nation of  life.  If  life  can  not  be  explained,  at  least  its 
inexplicability  can  be  faced.  And  that  way  lies  resig- 
nation and  peace  for  a  time. 

And  so  it  is  that  the  sober  stages  —  the  Art  Theatre, 
the  Opera  and  the  Ballet,  the  Small  State  Theatre  with 
its  classic  repertory  —  have  survived  the  tribulations 
of  social  chaos  while  the  lighter  and  the  experimental 
theatres  have  found  the  struggle  almost  hopeless. 
Seats  are  sold  out  at  the  Art  Theatre  days  in  advance. 
In  fact,  you  have  to  stand  in  line  for  a  number  and  then 
return  to  find  out  whether  yours  has  been  drawn  as  one 
of  the  lucky  numbers  entitling  the  holder  to  buy  seats. 
Tickets  to  the  masterpieces  of  Tchaikovsky  and  Glinka 
at  the  Great  State  Theatre  bring  prices  under  the 
canopy  just  before  the  curtain  that  would  make  spec- 
ulators in  Caruso  coupons  envious.  Just  ahead  may 
lie  the  complete  break-up  of  life  and  of  this  last  rem- 
nant of  the  elder  life.  But  while  it  endures,  the  Rus- 
sian is  determined  to  drink  deep  of  its  spiritual  draught. 

Day  by  day  against  forbidding  odds  I  gathered  to- 
gether the  fragments  of  this  strange  panorama  of 
plays  within  the  vaster  play  of  the  Revolution.  My 
own  problem  was  to  stick  to  my  task,  although  the  mad 
drama  of  the  headlong  course  of  human  events  beck- 
oned me  to  drop  my  tools  and  sit  spellbound,  watching 
the  three  and  thirty  rings  of  its  sardonic  circus. 
Never,  however,  was  this  vaster  spectacle  quite  out  of 
my  range  of  vision.  The  problem  of  food  and  shelter 
and  comparative  safety  linked  me  intimately  with  its 

8 


Plays  Within  a  Play 


grim  aspects.  Always  it  crept  unbidden  into  the  fore- 
ground, coloring  and  heightening  and  illuminating  the 
particular  phase  of  the  scene  I  had  set  myself  to  study. 

Far  more  distracting  than  this  temptation  was  the 
dilatory  nature  of  the  Russian.  When  he  starts  on  a 
task  there  is  no  one  in  the  world  more  intense  than 
the  Muscovite.  He  burns  himself  up  at  it.  Nothing 
else  exists  for  him  until  it  is  finished.  Once  it  is 
done,  though,  he  is  not  interested  in  preserving  the 
record  or  in  recalling  it  from  the  past.  The  doors  of 
every  theatre  in  Russia  opened  wide  for  me  when  my 
errand  became  known.  Again  and  again  I  presented 
myself  at  the  Art  Theatre  five  minutes  before  the  cur- 
tain. And  although  the  house  had  been  sold  out  for 
days,  a  seat  was  found  for  me.  But  when  I  asked  for 
the  facts,  the  records  of  the  past,  the  prospects  for  the 
future,  the  photographs  with  which  to  illustrate  my 
experiences,  I  was  politely  put  off  until  to-morrow. 
And  with  the  Russian  as  with  the  Mexican,  to-morrow 
never  becomes  to-day.  Perhaps  it  was  this  almost  in- 
superable obstacle  which  led  one  of  our  American 
critics  to  declare,  while  a  correspondent  in  Russia,  that 
the  task  of  gathering  the  record  of  the  Russian  theatre 
was  a  hopeless  one.  It  was  not  hopeless,  perhaps, 
but  it  was  far  from  hopeful.  No  Russian,  so  far  as 
I  could  discover,  has  ever  tried  to  surmount  its  diffi- 
culties. 

The  calendar  of  my  disappointments  looms  large  in 
my  journal.  Day  after  day  I  dogged  the  trail  of  Tai- 
roff  and  Forterre,  Stanislavsky  and  Kommissarzhevsky 

9 


The  Russian  Theatre 


and  Sumbatoff.  I  begged  and  I  pleaded.  One  night 
at  the  Kamerny  I  feigned  anger  and  the  ruse  nearly 
succeeded.  There  was  a  hurried  consultation  and 
Tairoff  rushed  up,  caught  me  in  his  arms  and  smiled, 
—  and  promised  once  more.  Little  by  little  I  gathered 
my  data,  sometimes,  I  think,  without  their  realizing  it. 
If  it  had  been  a  lesser  record,  I  would  have  given  up 
in  despair  long  before  it  was  finished. 

From  November,  1917,  until  February,  1918,  Mos- 
cow held  me  in  its  fascinating  grip.  Each  week  when 
I  thought  I  had  completed  the  repertory  of  the  leading 
theatres,  new  plays  were  thrust  into  the  schedules  from 
inexhaustible  storehouses.  There  have  been  few  new 
productions  in  the  Russian  theatres  since  the  Revolu- 
tion. The  cost  has  been  forbidding  under  the  strait- 
ened circumstances.  And  so  the  best  of  the  old  has 
been  drawn  forth  to  keep  the  programmes  full. 

At  last  in  February  I  tore  myself  away  for  a  desper- 
ate trip  to  Petrograd  in  the  face  of  the  German  ad- 
vance. The  embassies  were  packed  to  leave.  I  was 
advised  to  take  the  next  train  out  myself.  "  But  I  have 
just  arrived,"  I  protested.  Meyerhold,  the  eager 
regisseur  of  the  Alexandrinsky  Theatre,  and  good  gray 
Golovin,  the  artist  who  paints  his  scenery,  saw  my 
point,  urged  me  to  stay,  and  promised  to  keep  me  in 
hiding  for  two  years  if  necessary,  in  case  the  Germans 
should  come ! 

With  the  exception  of  the  Alexandrinsky  and  the 
Marinsky,  the  two  state-endowed  homes  of  the  drama 
and  the  opera,  and  one  or  two  experimental  theatres 

10 


Plays  Within  a  Play 


such  as  Yevreynoff's  Crooked  Looking-Glass,  the 
stages  of  the  capital  were  never  so  important  as  those 
of  Moscow.  And  even  these  had  suffered  from  the 
strictures  of  revolution  more  seriously  than  the  Mos- 
cow theatres,  just  as  every  phase  of  life  in  Petrograd 
was  more  bitter  and  desperate  than  in  Moscow.  Still, 
the  spirit  was  the  same.  Witness,  for  instance,  the  list 
from  which  I  had  to  choose  the  night  in  February  be- 
fore the  embassies  fled  for  the  morasses  of  Finland  or 
the  salubrious  peace  of  Vologda : 

At  the  Marinsky,  Rimsky-Korsakoff's  opera, 
"  Snyegurotchka."  At  the  Alexandrinsky,  one  of  the 
masterpieces  of  Ostrovsky,  "  The  Thunderstorm."  At 
the  Mihailovsky,  Euripides'  "  Hippolyte,"  with  scenery 
by  Bakst.  At  the  Narodny  Dom,  the  huge  auditorium 
where  opera  is  given  at  nominal  prices,  "  Yevgeny 
Onyegin  ",  the  masterpiece  of  Tchaikovsky  and  Push- 
kin. In  the  Dramatic  Hall  of  the  Narodny  Dom, 
"  The  Days  of  Our  Life  ",  one  of  the  earlier  plays  of 
Andreieff.  At  the  Workers'  Theatre,  another  play  by 
Andreieff,  "  Savva."  At  the  Crooked  Looking-Glass, 
Schnitzler's  "  The  Merry-go-round."  At  the  Musical 
Drama,  "Carmen."  At  the  Theatre  Saburova,  Mau- 
rice Donnay's  "  The  Education  of  a  Prince."  At  the 
Liteiny,  Ibsen's  "  Ghosts."  At  the  Theatre  Nezlobina, 
Merezhkovsky's  "  Paul  I."  And  at  the  Workshop 
Theatre,  Maeterlinck's  "  The  Miracle  of  St.  Anthony." 

A  remarkable  repertory  for  the  theatres  of  a  city 
of  order  and  peace.  But  for  Petrograd !  Players  and 
audience  alike,  hungry  and  harassed  by  the  Terror. 

II, 


The  Russian  Theatre 


And  the  Germans  a  few  hours'  railroad  journey  distant 
and  still  surging  onward.  It  was  incredible! 

Amazing  as  it  was,  Petrograd  was  not  the  place  to 
study  the  Russian  theatre.  It  lacked  the  detachment, 
the  aloofness  of  Moscow.  The  air  of  intense  uncer- 
tainty made  life  too  dynamic  for  contemplation.  Be- 
sides, I  had  considerable  material  to  gather  together 
in  Moscow  and  gaps  in  my  records  to  fill,  and  so  after 
two  weeks  I  returned  to  the  city  of  the  Kremlin.  An- 
other fortnight  there,  and  I  was  ready  to  start  on  the 
long  trail  home.  The  theatres  had  practically  completed 
their  season.  There  would  be  performances  in  alter- 
nating weeks  through  Lent,  but  no  new  productions  or 
revivals.  The  way  out  was  becoming  more  difficult 
daily.  Finland  was  closed  and  Vladivostok  was  sev- 
eral times  as  far  distant  as  it  had  been  in  the  previous 
autumn.  To  bring  back  my  records  in  safety  was 
worth  more  than  another  glimpse  or  two  of  the  de- 
fiantly beautiful  theatre  of  Russia,  kept  alive  by  the 
dauntless  courage  of  her  artists. 

When  I  hark  back  to  the  memories  of  that  theatre 
and  then  consider  the  state  of  our  own  in  wartime  and 
after,  safe  and  snug  and  trivial,  across  the  world  from 
the  firing  line  and  the  social  maelstrom,  I  am  in  no 
mood  to  make  excuses  for  the  Russian.  His  State  is 
on  the  rocks  through  the  fault  of  —  well,  who  shall  say 
whose  was  the  fault  ?  At  any  rate,  though  Russia  has 
1  lost  her  patrimony  for  awhile,  she  has  not  lost  her  soul ! 


CHAPTER   II 
THE  WORLD'S  FIRST  THEATRE 

CONSTANTIN  SERGEIEVITCH  ALEXEIEFF  reached  OUt 

a  large  warm  hand  and  his  furrowed  face  broke  into 
a  cordial  smile,  as  my  Moscow  host,  himself  a  man  of 
fine  tastes  and  keen  pride  in  the  Russian  theatre, 
started  to  introduce  me  in  the  little  dressing  room  to 
the  rear  of  the  stage  of  the  Art  Theatre.  My  letters 
had  preceded  me,  —  letters  telling  how  I  had  come  all 
the  way  from  America  into  the  shadow  of  the  Terror 
just  to  sit  in  the  playhouses  of  Moscow  and  Petrograd 
and  carry  back  to  my  own  country  a  brand  of  inspira- 
tion from  their  defiant  beauty.  As  the  name  in  the 
letters  and  the  name  from  the  lips  of  my  host  flashed 
their  identity  across  the  mind  of  the  artist,  I  felt  the 
thrill  of  suddenly  increased  pressure  on  my  hand,  the 
smile  vanished  from  his  face  and  tears  came  into  his 
eyes.  For  seventeen  thousand  miles  I  had  persisted 
on  my  errand,  relying  on  my  own  faith,  a  blind  faith 
which  I  could  hardly  analyze.  Now  I  was  face  to 
face  with  an  answering  faith.  I  knew  why  I  had 
come,  and  the  knowledge  of  my  responsibility  almost 
overwhelmed  me. 
It  was  thus  that  I  met  Stanislavsky,  president  of  the 

13 


The  Russian  Theatre 


council  and  first  artist  of  the  world's  first  theatre. 
Alexeieff  he  is  in  life,  but  all  Russia  and  the  world 
know  him  by  his  stage  name,  Stanislavsky.  All  Rus- 
sia knows  him,  and  his  name  and  his  influence  are 
written  all  over  the  record  of  the  Russian  theatre  of 
the  last  two  decades. 

Under  the  iron-gray  soldierly  guise  of  Vershinin, 
the  reserved  but  sensitive  lieutenant  colonel  in  Tche- 
hoff's  "  The  Three  Sisters  ",  I  first  saw  him  that  even- 
ing of  the  day  the  theatre  reopened  after  the  Bolshe- 
vik Revolution.  In  the  afternoon  "  The  Blue  Bird  " 
had  cast  its  spell  over  me  and  I  had  yielded  to  Stanis- 
lavsky, producer,  —  the  master  artist  of  the  active 
modern  theatre.  Maeterlinck's  f eerie  had  stood  forth 
for  the  first  time  as  its  creator  had  intended,  simply 
but  richly,  without  the  sentimental  trappings  of  the 
western  productions.  Now  it  was  Stanislavsky, 
actor,  to  whom  I  had  surrendered,  an  actor  distin- 
guished for  poise,  for  subtlety  of  shadings  and  for 
keenness  of  intellect,  but  above  all  for  the  beauty  of 
his  spirit. 

Five  days  later  I  visited  him  again  in  his  dressing 
room  to  discuss  my  plans,  and  this  time  I  sat  in  the 
presence  of  the  genial,  easy-going,  middle-aged  Gaieff 
of  TchehofFs  "  The  Cherry  Orchard."  The  call  bell 
rang  before  we  had  finished  and  so  I  returned  after 
the  final  curtain.  At  the  mirror  sat  a  man  with  silver 
hair.  I  must  be  in  the  wrong  room!  By  this  time 
my  host  had  caught  up  with  me  at  the  door  and  turned 
me  back  into  the  room,  —  to  face  Stanislavsky  after 

14 


The  World's  First  Theatre 


all,  Stanislavsky  the  man.  At  the  age  of  fifty-five  his 
hair  is  white.  But  that  is  the  only  sign  of  years.  His 
huge  square  frame  is  vigorous  and  alert,  his  eye  keen 
and  kindly,  his  grasp  of  detail  and  his  capacity  for 
work  thoroughly  un-Russian.  I  believe  he  is  the 
busiest  man  in  Moscow,  not  excepting  even  the  tireless 
People's  Kommissars.  At  least,  he  is  the  hardest  man 
in  the  city  to  find.  Not  so  hard,  though,  if  you  are  as 
persistent  in  your  task  as  he  is  in  his!  But  in  spite 
of  this  refusal  to  "  let  down  "  like  the  majority  of  his 
countrymen  and  most  foreigners  who  live  long  in  Rus- 
sia, Stanislavsky  is  splendidly  Russian.  I  don't  know 
why  I  had  expected  to  find  in  him  more  of  the  man 
of  the  world,  speaking  English,  perhaps,  and  surely 
French  fluently  and  possessed  of  the  confidence  and 
authority  to  which  his  position  entitled  him.  I  don't 
know,  unless  it  is  because  for  so  long  he  and  he  alone 
has  personified  outside  of  Russia  the  world's  first  the- 
atre. On  the  contrary,  he  speaks  with  difficulty  when 
he  leaves  his  native  tongue.  His  heart  and  soul  are 
in  Russia  and  in  his  work.  Transplant  him,  as  you 
could  a  man  of  the  world,  and  he  would  perish.  Most 
of  all  is  he  Russian  in  the  gentleness  and  simplicity 
of  his  ways,  in  the  beauty  of  spirit  which  inheres  alike 
in  the  artist  and  the  man. 

Once  more  I  saw  him  in  his  dressing  room,  this 
time  as  Satine,  the  strange  groping  soul  in  Maxim 
Gorky's  masterpiece,  "  The  Lower  Depths ",  who, 
stung  by  the  tragedies  of  that  dim  underworld,  rises 
from  his  planks  and  flings  out  a  flaming  declaration 

IS 


The  Russian  Theatre 


of  his  belief  in  life.  In  this  face  none  of  the  quiet 
dignity  of  Vershinin,  none  of  the  placid  sensitiveness 
of  Gaieff.  Instead,  the  smouldering  terror  of  the  lost 
soul  who  refuses  to  admit  that  he  is  lost,  the  defiant 
glint  of  the  eye,  the  nervous  twitching  of  the  mouth 
standing  out  from  the  frame  of  tattered  beard  and 
hair.  I  could  not  avoid  the  feeling  that  here  was 
Satine  himself,  the  Satine  I  had  seen  from  my  seat  in 
the  auditorium,  although  this  Satine  was  telling  me 
what  I  should  see  in  the  Studio  playhouses  of  the  Art 
Theatre  and  was  calling  in  the  young  men  in  charge  of 
them  to  introduce  them  to  me.  Such  is  the  persuasive 
mastery  of  the  craft  of  make-up  which  the  Russian 
has  achieved.  At  the  Art  Theatre,  this  natural  gift 
is  applied  with  even  more  startling  exactness  than  in 
the  other  playhouses  of  Moscow,  for  the  practical 
absence  of  footlights  permits  the  actors  to  dispense 
with  all  exaggeration  and  assume  the  semblance  of 
life. 

Several  other  times  I  met  Constantin  Sergeitch,  in 
the  theatre  or  at  the  Studios,  those  lusty  children  of 
the  parent  institution  which  will  keep  it  always  young 
and  which  their  founder  loves,  I  am  sure,  even  more 
fondly  than  the  Art  Theatre  itself.  Toward  the  end 
of  the  winter  he  was  seriously  ill,  and  I  continued  my 
research  through  Vladimir  Ivanovitch  Nyemirovitch- 
Dantchenko,  the  business  brains  of  the  Art  Theatre; 
Rumiantseff,  the  house  manager;  Berthenson,  the  new 
stage  manager  from  the  Alexandrinsky  in  Petrograd, 
and  Lazarieff,  a  gracious  member  of  the  company 

16 


The  World's  First  Theatre 


entrusted  to  me  as  a  kind  of  diplomatic  plenipoten- 
tiary. Still,  it  is  Stanislavsky  who  personifies  the 
Moscow  Art  Theatre  to  me.  I  like  most  to  remember 
him  as  I  saw  him  the  afternoon  of  the  dress  rehearsal 
of  "  Twelfth  Night  "  at  the  First  Studio.  Here  were 
his  pupils,  his  children,  ready  to  reveal  the  product  of 
their  patient  labors  to  their  master  and  to  the  assem- 
bled pillars  of  the  Moscow  stage.  All  of  the  pillars 
were  there  —  hale  and  hearty  Prince  Sumbatoff,  re- 
gent of  the  Small  State  Theatre,  the  home  of  classic 
drama;  Pravdin,  his  most  distinguished  actor;  Ander- 
son, the  bewitching  blonde  inheritor  of  Pavlova's 
laurels  in  the  ballet;  Gzovskaya,  once  of  the  Art  The- 
atre and  at  that  time  in  SumbatofFs  ranks,  and  many 
others.  On  the  front  row  of  the  tiny  improvised 
auditorium,  a  seat  or  two  to  my  right,  sat  Stanislavsky 
with  pencil  and  paper  in  hand  to  note  the  transgres- 
sions of  his  flock.  These  implements,  though,  were 
soon  forgotten  and  a  broad  smile  of  pride  mingled  with 
unaffected  and  unashamed  pleasure  spread  over  his 
face  as  these  eager  candidates  for  the  Art  Theatre 
ranks  romped  their  way  through  the  heartiest,  the 
most  truly  Elizabethan  performance  of  "  Twelfth 
Night  "  I  have  ever  seen. 

Stanislavsky  and  Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko ;  the 
eighteen-hour  session  between  the  actor  and  the  busi- 
ness man  in  a  Moscow  cafe  on  June  4,  1897,  when  the 
foundations  of  the  theatre  were  agreed  upon ;  the  end- 
lessly patient  preparation  of  its  productions;  Tchehoff 
and  his  plays,  "  The  Sea  Gull "  and  "  The  Three  Sis- 

17 


The  Russian  Theatre 


ters  "  and  "  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  —  these  are  the 
facts  and  the  personalities  by  which  the  Moscow  Art 
Theatre  is  known  in  America.  They  are  salient  facts 
but  they  are  not  the  only  facts,  and  it  may  be  well 
both  for  us  and  for  Russia  to  know  a  few  more  of  the 
facts  about  this  first  of  the  world's  theatres. 

You  would  never  suspect  the  intentions  of  the  inte- 
rior of  the  Art  Theatre  from  its  businesslike  facade  in 
Kamergersky  Pereulok,  a  little  over  two  squares  from 
the  great  open  Theatre  Place  of  Moscow.  Once  it 
was  a  business  block,  and  shops  still  occupy  the  street- 
floor  front.  Inside,  however,  its  architectural  ances- 
try is  soon  forgotten,  for  the  transformation  has  been 
thorough.  The  Art  Theatre  has  one  of  the  most  sat- 
isfactory auditoriums  of  the  world's  playhouses,  —  a 
severe  but  comfortable  and  quiet  enclosure  in  browns, 
with  wood  panelling  in  place  of  the  traditional  stucco 
and  with  three  floors,  each  opening  by  way  of  spacious 
corridors  into  tempting  foyers  and  restaurant  and 
smoking  and  trophy  rooms.  Beyond  the  public  gaze, 
however,  there  is  a  pitiful  lack  of  elbow  space.  The 
costume  accumulations  of  twenty  years  are  stowed  in 
two  small  rooms  up  under  the  roof.  The  scenery  has 
overflowed  into  all  the  vacant  buildings  and  lofts  open- 
ing on  the  great  courtyard  at  the  rear  of  the  theatre. 
The  dilapidated  stagecoach  used  in  the  first  act  of  the 
Dostoievsky  play,  "  The  Village  Stepantchikovo  ",  is 
pitched  out  anywhere  in  this  courtyard  between  per- 
formances, and  it  is  becoming  more  realistic  every 
week !  The  Art  Theatre  is  looking  forward  to  a  new 


The  World's  First  Theatre 


building  some  day,  —  the  world's  first  playhouse  for 
the  world's  first  theatre.  But  there  will  have  to  be  a 
new  Russia  before  the  Art  Theatre  has  a  new  home ! 

How  a  sober,  serious  institution  such  as  this  has 
been  able  to  survive  the  strain  of  three  years  of  war 
and  nearly  two  years  of  profound  social  upheaval  is 
a  mystery  explicable  only  by  an  understanding  of  Rus- 
sian character.  In  the  previous  chapter  I  have  ex- 
plained the  dogged  persistence  of  art,  and  the  theatre 
in  particular,  by  the  fact  that  the  Russian  has  built 
his  deepest  feelings  into  his  art,  and  to  these  purging 
experiences  he  returns  when  life  becomes  too  heavy  to 
endure.  The  ability  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  to 
preserve  the  astonishing  perfection  of  its  former  days 
under  almost  insuperable  handicaps  is  due  also  to  its 
marvelously  efficient  and  compact  organization. 

The  Art  Theatre  is  an  institution.  It  has  its  own 
home,  its  own  company,  its  own  clientele,  its  own  faith- 
fully built  past,  its  own  carefully  analyzed  future. 
Each  year  it  has  a  budget  which  faces  facts  as  relent- 
lessly as  the  budget  of  a  bank  or  an  insurance  cor- 
poration. It  knows  by  experience  that  as  long  as  the 
citizens  of  Moscow  walk  that  city's  cobble  streets 
they  will  buy  all  of  the  tickets  offered  for  sale  at 
its  box  office.  The  only  error  in  its  calculations 
during  the  winter  of  1917-1918  lay  in  the  deficit 
due  to  the  closing  of  the  theatre  during  the  Bol- 
shevik Revolution.  The  theatre  is  incorporated  as  a 
cooperative  body  after  the  manner  of  corporate  in- 
stitutions throughout  the  world.  Every  one  connected 

19 


The  Russian  Theatre 


with  the  theatre  draws  his  individual  salary,  whether 
he  is  a  member  of  the  cooperative  society  or  not. 
The  purpose  of  that  society  is  to  apply  the  profits  and 
other  sums  which  may  be  received,  first  of  all  to  the 
upbuilding  of  the  theatre  as  a  permanent  institution, 
and  afterwards  to  the  members  in  proportion  to  their 
stock  holdings  and  their  salaries.  The  opportunity  to 
share  in  the  management  of  the  institution  into  which 
they  have  poured  their  lives  and  also  in  its  financial 
returns  has  induced  most  of  the  leading  members  of 
the  company  to  join  the  corporation.  Loyalty  and 
affection  for  Stanislavsky  binds  every  one  connected 
with  the  theatre  to  his  work,  but  the  cooperative  organ- 
ization makes  that  loyalty  intensely  practical.  When- 
ever I  came  back  to  its  brown  curtains  with  the  sea-gull 
device  worked  on  them,  after  I  had  made  a  round  of 
the  other  playhouses  of  Moscow,  I  felt  ashamed  for 
doubting  its  preeminence.  There  was  no  authority  or 
order  at  the  Great  State  Theatre,  the  home  of  opera 
and  ballet.  There  was  utter  disorder  and  confusion 
at  the  Theatre  of  the  Soviet  of  Workmen's  Deputies. 
But  at  the  Art  Theatre  every  one  ticked  out  his  tasks 
like  the  wheels  of  a  great  clock.  Often  there  was  more 
than  one  at  hand  to  meet  emergencies  as  they  arose. 
Under  the  charter,  the  operation  of  the  theatre  is 
divided  between  the  Council  and  the  Direction.  The 
Council  decides  what  plays  shall  be  produced,  who 
shall  design  the  scenery,  who  shall  write  the  necessary 
music,  who  shall  supervise  the  production  and  who 
shall  play  the  various  roles.  Its  tasks  lie  behind  the 

20 


The  World's  First  Theatre 


curtain.  Stanislavsky,  of  course,  is  at  its  head,  and 
its  other  members  include  many  of  the  ablest  actors 
in  the  company:  Gribunin,  Katchaloff,  Massalitinoff, 
Moskvin,  Stahovitch,  Sushkyevitch  and  Gaidaroff. 

The  Direction,  on  the  other  hand,  engages  itself  to 
carry  out  the  behests  of  the  Council.  It  undertakes 
and  meets  the  financial  and  the  business  obligations  of 
the  theatre  and  at  its  head  is  Moscow's  Maecenas, 
Vladimir  Ivanovitch  Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko,  who  is 
assisted  by  Alexandroff  and  the  manager  of  the  house, 
Rumiantseff.  From  the  first  hours  of  the  Art  The- 
atre, Vladimir  Ivanovitch  has  stood  by  the  side  of 
Stanislavsky,  helping  by  shrewd  practical  advice  and 
by  lavish  use  of  his  private  fortune  to  guide  the  insti- 
tution to  an  independent  basis.  It  has  been  his  acute 
business  sense  which  has  carried  the  Art  Theatre  safely 
through  the  trying  days  of  war  and  revolution.  He, 
too,  is  well  on  toward  sixty  years,  but  although  his 
mind  and  his  manner  are  still  almost  as  young  as  those 
of  his  coadjutor,  he  carries  the  air  of  a  man  of  affairs. 
If  you  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  at  Monte  Carlo  or  at 
Capri,  you  might  mistake  him  for  a  Russian  Grand 
Duke  traveling  incognito  to  escape  a  Bolshevik  doom. 

It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  the  Art  Theatre  has  been 
able  to  attract  to  its  ranks  and  hold  many  of  the  fore- 
most actors  of  the  Russian  stage.  The  more  impor- 
tant members  of  the  company  number  at  least  fifty, 
while  the  pupils  of  the  Studio  theatres,  who  are  often 
called  to  the  parent  stage  to  play  minor  roles,  will 
double  that  total.  The  company  is  especially  strong 

21 


The  Russian  Theatre 


in  its  men.  Six  of  them  in  addition  to  Stanislavsky 
are  artists  of  the  first  rank.  Any  one  of  the  seven 
would  be  acknowledged  leader  of  our  stage  if  his  gifts 
could  be  transferred  and  made  intelligible  in  our  the- 
atres. Chief  among  the  men  after  Stanislavsky  is 
Vassily  Ivanovitch  Katchaloff,  an  actor  of  keen  mind, 
fine  imagination  and  impressive  presence,  equalled  only 
by  Mansfield  in  his  prime  or  Coquelin.  He  is  as  much 
at  home  in  the  role  of  the  suave  Don  Juan  in  Push- 
kin's "  The  Stone  Guest "  as  he  is  in  that  of  the  tat- 
tered Baron  in  Gorky's  "  The  Lower  Depths."  No 
one  in  the  Russian  theatre  can  say  "If  you  please  " 
with  more  urbanity  than  Katchaloff.  It  was  he  who 
played  Hamlet  in  the  much-discussed  production  of 
the  tragedy  for  which  Gordon  Craig  designed  the 
scenery  in  1912.  Equally  important  in  the  Art  The- 
atre ensemble  is  the  versatile  Ivan  Mihailovitch  Mosk- 
vin,  Russia's  and,  I  think,  the  world's  greatest  living 
high  comedian.  In  a  season  you  may  see  him  in  roles 
ranging  all  the  way  from  the  unctuous  match-making 
country  doctor  in  Turgenieff's  "  A  Month  in  the  Coun- 
try "  to  the  tragic  figure  of  Tsar  Fyodor  Ivanovitch 
in  Count  Alexei  Tolstoy's  historical  play  of  the  same 
name.  I  thought  at  first  that  the  Russians  did  not 
appreciate  Moskvin  and  his  subtle,  pointed  humor. 
They  did  not  pay  audible  tribute  as  we  would.  But 
after  a  while  I  discovered  that  they  cherished  Moskvin 
as  a  supreme  artist  instead  of  a  mere  entertainer. 
Our  stage  has  probably  never  known  a  character  actor 
of  the  breadth  and  range  of  Luzhsky.  And  the 

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The  World's  First  Theatre 


brusque  Gribunin,  the  sturdy  Vishnevsky  and  the 
earnest  Massalitinoff  have  only  slightly  less  surprising 
gifts. 

First  of  the  actresses  at  the  Art  Theatre  is  Olga 
Leonardo vna  Knipper,  widow  of  the  beloved  play- 
wright, Anton  Tchehoff,  who  wrote  the  leading  roles 
in  his  plays  for  her  and  whom  she  married  four  years 
before  his  death  in  1904.  Through  her,  the  Tchehoff 
tradition  lives  on  unbroken,  and  when  in  "  The  Three 
Sisters "  and  "  The  Cherry  Orchard "  she  appears 
opposite  Stanislavsky,  the  modern  theatre  reaches  the 
height  of  its  eloquence  and  its  beauty  in  the  realm  of 
realistic  drama.  Mme.  Knipper  is  still  in  her  prime 
and  she  probably  plays  the  role  of  Liuboff  Ranevskaya, 
owner  of  the  Cherry  Orchard,  more  convincingly  than 
she  did  in  1904,  although  as  Masha  she  looks  like  the 
eldest  instead  of  the  middle  of  the  three  sisters.  Her 
scope  and  her  powers  are  more  nearly  similar  to  those 
of  Mrs.  Fiske  than  of  any  one  else  in  the  American 
theatre. 

The  Art  Theatre  is  weaker,  comparatively,  in  its 
women.  And  yet,  besides  Mme.  Knipper,  there  are 
others,  many  others,  gifted  and  intelligent  far  beyond 
our  own  players :  Maria  Petrovna  Lilina,  the  wife  of 
Stanislavsky,  crisp  and  penetrating  and  ingratiating; 
Nadiezhda  Butova,  powerful  in  her  reserve;  Maria 
Germanova,  stunning  and  commanding  in  her  dark 
fascination;  and  Maria  Zhdanova,  very  young  and 
very  promising,  charming  and  wistful  and  light  as  a 
feather  in  her  touch. 


The  Russian  Theatre 


To  these  in  time  will  be  added  the  graduates  from 
the  Studio  theatres,  young  players  who  under  the 
quick  sympathy  and  the  rigorous  discipline  of  Stanis- 
lavsky are  mooring  themselves  firmly  in  their  art. 
Occasionally  you  will  hear  some  one  in  Moscow  ask 
who  will  take  the  place  of  this  player  or  that  in  future 
years,  who  will  play  a  certain  cherished  role.  Pos- 
sibly no  one.  Surely  no  one  has  been  found  to  follow 
the  mourned  Artyom,  the  inimitable  creator  of  strange 
old  men,  who  died  in  the  first  year  of  the  war.  But 
there  will  be  other  plays  and  other  roles  for  the  younger 
generation.  Already  the  Studios  have  cast  up  the 
flaming  genius  of  Kolin.  Up  from  the  Studios,  too, 
have  come  the  antic  Smuishlyaieff;  the  tender  and 
morose  Tchehoff,  nephew  of  the  playwright;  and  the 
impassioned  Baklanova,  a  wholly  new  kind  of  genius 
for  the  Art  Theatre. 

The  world's  first  theatre  ?  By  what  right  ?  By  right 
of  its  extraordinary  personnel?  Partly.  By  right  of 
its  imposing  and  notable  repertory?  Partly  that,  too. 
In  twenty  years,  four  of  them  years  of  war  and  deso- 
lation, the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  has  made  sixty-one 
productions  —  seventy-one  plays  in  all.  Of  the  sixty- 
one,  Russia  has  provided  the  plays  for  thirty-six  of 
the  productions.  The  entire  course  of  Russian  dra- 
matic literature  has  yielded  up  its  treasures,  from 
Pushkin  and  Gogol  and  Griboyedoff  and  Ostrovsky 
down  through  the  Tolstoys  and  Turgenieff  and 
Dostoievsky  to  Tchehoff  and  Andreieff  and  Gorky. 
With  a  fine  catholicity  of  taste  as  well  as  a  loyalty  to 

24 


The  World's  First  Theatre 


her  native  writers,  foreign  dramatists  were  sought  for 
twenty-five  of  the  productions:  Sophocles  and  Shake- 
speare, Moliere  and  Goldoni,  Maeterlinck  and  Haupk 
mann,  Ibsen  and  Hamsun.  The  Russian  respect  for 
Ibsen  is  revealed  in  the  fact  that  nine  of  these  twenty- 
five  productions  were  of  his  plays.  Almost  the  entire 
acting  canon  of  the  great  Norwegian,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  "  A  Doll's  House  ",  "  The  Lady  from  the  Sea  " 
and  "  John  Gabriel  Borkman  ",  has  been  played  on  the 
stage  of  the  Art  Theatre. 

Nothing  tells  so  compactly  the  story  of  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre  as  the  growth  of  its  repertory  year  by 
year.  Plays  have  often  been  held  over  from  season 
to  season  or  revived,  but  it  is  the  new  productions 
which  are  significant.  Between  the  lines,  too,  runs  the 
course  of  Russian  history,  with  bare  spots  to  mark  the 
Great  War  and  the  Revolutions  of  1905  and  1917.  I 
present  it,  therefore,  in  full,  letting  its  eloquent  impli- 
cations and  connotations  speak  for  themselves : 

Season  of  1898-1899:  "Tsar  Fyodor  Ivanovitch  ", 
Count  Alexei  Tolstoy ;  "  They  Who  Take  the  Law  into 
Their  Hands",  Pisemsky;  "The  Sunken  Bell", 
Hauptmann ;  "  The  Merchant  of  Venice ",  Shake- 
speare ;  "  The  Hostess  of  the  Inn  "  and  "  The  Happi- 
ness of  Greta  ",  Goldoni ;  "  The  Sea  Gull  ",  Tchehoff ; 
"  Antigone  ",  Sophocles ;  "  Hedda  Gabler  ",  Ibsen. 

Season  of  1899-1900 :  "  The  Death  of  Ivan  the  Ter- 
rible ",  Count  Alexei  Tolstoy;  "Twelfth  Night", 
Shakespeare ;  "  Drayman  Henschel  ",  Hauptmann ; 
"  Uncle  Vanya  ",  Tchehoff;  "  Lonely  Lives  ",  Haupt- 
mann. 2  C 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Season  of  1900-1901 :  "  The  Snow  Maiden  ",  Os- 
trovsky;  "  An  Enemy  of  the  People  ",  Ibsen;  "  When 
We  Dead  Awaken",  Ibsen;  "The  Three  Sisters", 
Tchehoff. 

Season  of  1901-1902:  "The  Wild  Duck",  Ibsen; 
"In  Dream  Land",  Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko; 
"  Michael  Kramer  ",  Hauptmann. 

Season  of  1902-1903:  "Smug  Citizens",  Gorky; 
"The  Power  of  Darkness",  Count  Lyoff  Tolstoy; 
"  The  Lower  Depths  ",  Gorky;  "  Pillars  of  Society  ", 
Ibsen. 

Season  of  1903-1904:  "Julius  Caesar",  Shake- 
speare; "  The  Cherry  Orchard  ",  Tchehoff. 

Season  of  1904-1905 :  Three  Short  Plays,  Maeter- 
linck; "  Ivanoff  ",  Tchehoff;  "  At  the  Monastery  "  and 
"Miniatures",  Yartseff,  Tchehoff  and  Tchirikoff; 
"  The  Prodigal  Son  "  and  "  Ivan  Mironitch  ",  Naide- 
noff;  "Ghosts",  Ibsen. 

Season  of  1905-1906:  "Children  of  the  Sun", 
Gorky. 

Season  of  1906-1907:  "The  Sorrows  of  the 
Spirit",  Griboyedoff;  "Brand",  Ibsen;  "The  Drama 
of  Life  ",  Hamsun;  "  The  Walls  ",  Naidenoff. 

Season  of  1907-1908:  "Boris  Godunoff",  Push- 
kin; "The  Life  of  Man",  Andreieff;  "  Rosmers- 
holm  ",  Ibsen. 

Season  of  1908-1909:  "The  Blue  Bird",  Maeter- 
linck; "The  Inspector  General",  Gogol;  "At  the 
Tsar's  Door  ",  Hamsun. 

Season   of    1909-1910:   "Anathema",   Andreieff; 

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The  World's  First  Theatre 


"A  Month  in  the  Country",  Turgenieff;  "Enough 
Stupidity  in  Every  Wise  Man  ",  Ostrovsky. 

Season  of  1910-1911:  "The  Brothers  Karama- 
zoff  ",  Dostoievsky;  "  Miserere  ",  Youshkyevitch ;  "  In 
the  Claws  of  Life  ",  Hamsun. 

Season  of  1911-1912 :  "  The  Living  Corpse  ",  Count 
Lyoff  Tolstoy ;  "  Hamlet  ",  Shakespeare ;  Three  Short 
Plays,  Turgenieff. 

Season  of  1912-1913:  "Peer  Gynt ",  Ibsen;  "  Ye- 
katerina  Ivanovna  ",  Andreieff;  "  Le  Malade  Imagi- 
naire  " ,  Moliere. 

Season  of  1913-1914:  "Nikolai  Stavrogin  ",  Dos- 
toievsky ;  "  Thought  ",  Andreieff. 

Season  of  1914-1915:  "The  Death  of  Pazuhin", 
Saltuikoff-Shchedrin ;  "Autumn  Violins",  Surgu- 
tchoff;  Three  Short  Plays,  Pushkin. 

Season  of  1915-1916;  "There  Will  Be  Joy",  Me- 
rezhkovsky. 

Season  of  1916-1917:  No  new  productions. 

Season  of  1917-1918:  "The  Village  Stepantchi- 
kovo  ",  Dostoievsky. 

The  supremacy  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  how- 
ever, lies  more  securely  in  its  perfection  and  thorough 
application  of  a  dramatic  principle,  the  principle  of 
realism.  The  fact  that  it  has  reached  the  end  of  its 
tether,  that  it  is  simply  applying  this  principle  all  over 
again  with  each  new  play  which  it  produces,  has  served 
latterly  to  rouse  the  charge  that  it  has  fulfilled  its  pur- 
pose, that  it  has  had  its  day.  From  its  earliest  years, 
the  adherence  of  Stanislavsky  to  the  belief  in  realism 

27 


The  Russian  Theatre 


as  an  art  method  has  borne  the  brunt  of  bitter  attack. 
Meyerhold  quarrelled  first  within  the  company  and 
then,  leaving  it,  he  has  spent  the  last  ten  years  in 
attacking  the  theories  of  the  Art  Theatre  and  in  mak- 
ing productions  as  utterly  different  as  the  theatre  will 
permit.  Alice  Koonen,  trained  under  Stanislavsky  and 
the  first  of  the  Mytyls  in  "The  Blue  Bird",  has 
seceded  and  with  Alexander  Tairoff  has  founded  the 
experimental  Kamerny  Theatre.  Kommissarzhevsky 
has  fought  the  good  gray  leader  with  dialectic  and  with 
experiment.  But  the  Art  Theatre  goes  on  its  way 
regardless  of  the  epithets  dragged  from  the  dictionary 
to  be  hurled  at  it.  Once  in  a  while  Stanislavsky  leaves 
his  chosen  path  for  an  experiment  of  his  own,  such  as 
the  highly  imaginative  and  symbolic  production  of 
"  The  Blue  Bird."  Or  he  invites  Gordon  Craig  to 
come  to  Moscow  to  set  "  Hamlet  "  on  his  stage.  Even 
Craig,  uncompromising  as  he  is  against  realism,  admits 
that  if  you  are  determined  to  have  realism  in  your 
theatre  you  must  go  to  school  to  Stanislavsky.  And 
those  who  have  lost  interest  in  the  Art  Theatre  and 
who  have  turned  their  attention  to  the  newer  experi- 
mental stages,  confess  that  no  study  of  the  modern 
theatre  is  complete  without  Stanislavsky.  By  the 
mere  lapse  of  time,  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  a  revo- 
lutionist in  1900,  has  become  conservative.  It  has 
settled  into  a  tradition. 

The  key  to  the  Art  Theatre's  attainment  of  realis- 
tic appearance,  it  seems  to  me,  is  its  stark  sincerity  and 
its  use  of  a  certain  minimization.  Some  of  the  minor 

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The  World's  First  Theatre 


customs  of  the  theatre  have  played  their  part.  No 
applause  is  permitted,  even  at  the  act  ends  or  after  the 
final  curtain.  The  more  democratic  audiences  of  the 
theatre  under  the  Revolution  have  often  sought  to 
show  their  approval  in  this  customary  manner,  but 
they  have  been  promptly  hushed  and  the  tradition  has 
prevailed.  Conjointly,  there  are  no  curtain  calls,  no 
chimes  to  announce  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  no  music 
between  the  acts.  The  impression  of  a  series  of  cross 
sections  of  life  is  carried  out  without  the  slightest 
artificial  restriction. 

The  final  achievement  of  the  Art  Theatre,  however, 
is  not  mere  realism,  not  realism  alone  brought  to  a 
startling  mechanical  perfection  in  its  representation  of 
life.  Rather,  it  is  a  spiritualized  realism,  a  use  of  the 
realistic  form  as  a  means  and  not  an  end,  a  means  to 
the  more  vivid  interpretation  of  life.  Obviously, 
realism  can  not  be  spiritualized  except  by  artists, 
supreme  artists.  And  therein,  I  think,  lies  the  claim 
of  the  Art  Theatre  to  the  leadership  of  the  world. 

Out  of  Russia  to-day  there  comes  no  word  but  sor- 
row. Are  the  theatres  still  fulfilling  their  task  of 
purging  the  Russian  soul  in  its  days  of  deepest  an- 
guish ?  Has  Stanislavsky  satisfied  himself  with  all  the 
details  of  "  The  Rose  and  the  Cross  ",  the  new  poetic 
drama  by  Alexander  Blok  which  was  in  rehearsal  long 
before  I  left  Russia?  And  has  it  been  brought  to 
birth  in  the  blood  of  the  Terror?  Have  they  revived 
"  The  Sea  Gull  "  as  they  hoped  to  do  for  its  twentieth 
anniversary?  Have  they  been  able  to  carry  out  their 


The  Russian  Theatre 


plan  to  produce  Tolstoy's  "  The  Light  That  Shines  in 
Darkness  ",  a  light  in  a  darkness  greater  than  even 
Tolstoy  ever  dreamed  ?  I  do  not  know.  All  I  know  is 
that  if  there  yet  remains  any  gleam  of  the  elder  life, 
that  shrine  in  Kamergersky  Pereulok  nurtures  it.  All 
I  know  is  that  the  world's  first  theatre  will  not,  must 
not  perish  from  the  earth  1 


CHAPTER   III 
"  THE  BLUE  BIRD  "  AND  STANISLAVSKY 

WHEN  you  have  traveled  three  quarters  of  the  way 
around  a  world  at  war,  risking  the  dangers  of  revolu- 
tion and  anarchy,  and  uncertain,  except  for  a  blind 
faith,  whether  or  not  you  would  find  your  goal  still  in 
existence,  and  when,  after  months  of  patient  prepara- 
tion and  still  more  patient  pilgrimage,  you  find  your- 
self in  the  presence  of  that  which  you  had  sought,  then 
you  come  as  near  to  the  humbleness  of  the  prophets 
who  saw  visions  of  old  as  any  man  is  likely  to  come 
to-day. 

Months  have  passed  and  yet  somehow  I  am  still  too 
near  to  that  December  afternoon  when  the  Moscow  Art 
Theatre  resumed  its  season,  too  near  to  those  hours 
when  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  unfolded  its  fairy  panorama 
to  write  dispassionately  of  them.  I  can  not  tell  surely 
whether  it  was  the  arrival  at  the  shrine  or  the  over- 
whelming beauty  of  the  production  of  Maeterlinck's 
f eerie  which  brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes  and  sobered 
and  chastened  and  then  lightened  my  spirit.  Only  this 
I  know :  I  have  seen  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  twice  and  again 
after  that  first  afternoon  and  its  simple  beauty  was 
even  more  profoundly  affecting. 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


The  man  to  whom,  more  than  to  any  one  else,  the 
Moscow  Art  Theatre  owes  its  preeminence  in  the  world 
to-day  is  also  directly  and  personally  responsible  for 
the  bounties  of  "  The  Blue  Bird."  The  programme  in 
the  afternoon  had  carried  the  name  of  Stanislavsky  as 
postanovka  or  producer.  Further  proof  came  that 
evening  when  I  was  in  his  dressing  room  between  the 
acts  of  "  The  Three  Sisters."  I  asked  him  eagerly  for 
photographs  of  the  scenes  of  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  or  else 
for  the  original  designs  of  the  scenic  artist  so  that  I 
might  have  them  copied.  I  thought  I  had  seen  the 
latter  reproduced  in  Jacques  Rouche's  "  L'Art  Theatral 
Modern."  The  photographs,  I  was  told,  were  not 
available  —  except  those  of  the  players  themselves  — 
for  the  original  negatives  had  been  made  by  Fischer,  a 
German,  and  had  been  destroyed  in  the  pogrom  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war  in  1914.  And  in  the  difficult 
times  Russia  has  undergone  since  then,  no  others  have 
been  made.  When  I  pressed  my  point  and  asked  about 
the  original  designs,  the  firm,  square  but  kindly  face  of 
my  host  carried  a  passing  glance  of  embarrassed  mod- 
esty and  then  admitted  that  there  were  no  designs. 
He  had  conceived  them  himself  and  had  personally 
directed  the  artist,  V.  E.  Yegoroff,  in  the  execution 
of  the  settings.  And  Monsieur  Rouche,  sitting  where 
I  was  sitting,  some  time  before  the  war,  had  made  his 
own  sketches  from  the  photographs  which  were  no 
longer  extant.  Before  I  left  Moscow,  however,  I 
found  some  sketches  by  an  unnamed  artist  which  con- 
vey roughly  the  impression  of  the  stage  pictures. 


"  The  Blue  Bird"  and  Stanislavsky 

Ten  days  before  the  theatre  reopened  I  had  found 
my  way  to  the  office  through  a  side  door  and  there  I 
had  arranged  my  schedule  for  the  first  two  weeks.  I 
did  not  penetrate  farther  into  the  building,  however, 
for  I  wished  to  see  it  for  the  first  time  under  the  lights 
and  in  the  expectation  that  always  and  forever  lurks 
in  every  theatre  before  the  play  begins.  The  same 
door,  though,  carried  me  farther  at  noon  on  the  ap- 
pointed day,  for  Moscow  matinees  are  early.  And 
before  I  knew  it  —  the  theatre  is  so  perfect  a  unity  — 
I  had  passed  through  several  corridors  and  on  into  the 
simple  and  restful  auditorium  and  to  my  seat  in  the 
wide  transverse  aisle  a  third  of  the  way  back  from  the 
stage. 

In  the  ten  seasons  since  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  was  pre- 
sented for  the  first  time  in  the  world  on  the  stage  of 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  nearly  three  years  in  advance 
of  its  first  performance  in  Paris,  the  original  produc- 
tion has  been  repeated  two  hundred  and  seventy  times. 
It  is,  therefore,  one  of  the  most  substantial  and  familiar 
members  of  the  Art  Theatre  repertory,  for  even  some 
of  the  best  known  of  the  Tchehoff  plays  can  not  point 
to  such  a  record.  And  in  that  time  the  interpretation 
probably  has  not  varied  any  more  than  it  does  in  the 
course  of  the  half  dozen  performances  a  month,  for 
with  the  extensive  company  of  the  Art  Theatre  there 
are  several  players  for  many  of  the  roles.  Two  im- 
portant omissions  have  been  made  since  the  early  days 
of  the  play's  history,  —  the  fifth  tableau,  the  second 
scene  of  the  third  act,  in  the  forest ;  and  the  seventh 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


tableau,  the  second  scene  in  the  fourth  act,  the  ceme- 
tery. These  two  scenes,  Stanislavsky  told  me,  had 
frightened  the  children ;  and  inasmuch  as  "  The  Blue 
Bird  "  was  intended  primarily  for  them  and  is  practi- 
cally always  played  at  matinees  for  their  benefit,  they 
were  left  out  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  scene  in  the 
cemetery  was  one  of  the  most  characteristically  Russian 
in  the  entire  production. 

As  it  is  now  presented  at  the  Art  Theatre,  "  The 
Blue  Bird  "  is  in  five  acts,  instead  of  the  playwright's 
original  six,  and  seven  scenes  instead  of  the  twelve 
Maeterlinck  wrote.  The  first  act  is  at  the  home  of  the 
woodcutter;  the  second  at  the  Fairy's  Palace  and  in 
the  Land  of  Memory;  the  third  in  the  Palace  of  Night; 
the  fourth  in  the  Kingdom  of  the  Future ;  and  the  last 
the  Farewell  and  the  Awakening.  Three  other  scenes 
from  the  original  manuscript,  therefore,  were  never 
included  —  the  one  in  the  Palace  of  the  Joys  and  two 
before  the  curtain.  Even  to-day  the  performance 
runs  something  over  four  hours. 

For  prelude  to  a  glimpse  of  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  as  it 
is  set  forth  on  the  stage  of  the  Art  Theatre,  I  can  think 
of  nothing  that  will  disclose  the  guiding  purpose  of  that 
embodiment  and  unlock  the  secret  of  its  simple  spirit- 
ual power  so  well  as  these  lines  from  Stanislavsky's  ad- 
dress to  the  players  just  before  they  began  the  work  of 
study  and  rehearsal : 

"  The  production  of  '  The  Blue  Bird  '  must  be  made 
with  the  purity  of  fantasy  of  a  ten-year-old  child.  It 
must  be  naive,  simple,  light,  full  of  the  joy  of  life, 

34 


"The  Blue  Bird1'  and  Stanislavsky 

cheerful  and  imaginative  like  the  sleep  of  a  child;  as 
beautiful  as  a  child's  dream  and  at  the  same  time  as 
majestic  as  the  ideal  of  a  poetic  genius  and  thinker. 

"  Let '  The  Blue  Bird  '  in  our  theatre  thrill  the  grand- 
children and  arouse  serious  thoughts  and  deep  feelings 
in  their  grandparents.  Let  the  grandchildren  on  com- 
ing home  from  the  theatre  feel  the  joy  of  existence  with 
which  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl  are  possessed  in  the  last  act 
of  the  play.  At  the  same  time  let  their  grandfathers 
and  grandmothers  once  more  before  their  impending 
death  become  inspired  with  the  natural  desire  of  man : 
to  enjoy  God's  world  and  be  glad  that  it  is  beauti- 
ful. .  .  . 

"If  man  were  always  able  to  love,  to  understand,  to 
delight  in  nature!  If  he  contemplated  more  often,  if 
he  reflected  on  the  mysteries  of  the  world  and  took 
thought  of  the  eternal!  Then  perhaps  the  Blue  Bird 
would  be  flying  freely  among  us.  ... 

"  In  order  to  make  the  public  listen  to  the  fine  shades 
of  your  feelings,  you  have  to  live  them  through  your- 
self intensely.  To  live  through  definite  intelligible 
feelings  is  easier  than  to  live  through  the  subtle  soul 
vibrations  of  a  poetic  nature.  To  reach  those  experi- 
ences it  is  necessary  to  dig  deep  into  the  material  which 
is  handed  to  you  for  creation.  To  the  study  of  the 
play  we  shall  devote  jointly  a  great  deal  of  work  and 
attention  and  love.  But  that  is  little.  In  addition, 
you  have  to  prepare  yourselves  independently. 

"  I  speak  of  your  personal  life  observation  which 
will  broaden  your  imagination  and  sensitiveness. 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


Make  friends  of  children.  Enter  into  their  world. 
Watch  nature  more  and  her  manifestations  surround- 
ing us.  Make  friends  of  dogs  and  cats  and  look 
oftener  into  their  eyes  to  see  their  souls.  Thereby, 
you  will  be  doing  the  same  as  Maeterlinck  did  before 
he  wrote  the  play,  and  you  will  come  closer  to  the 
author.  .  .  . 

"  More  than  anything  else,  we  must  avoid  theatrical- 
ness  in  the  external  presentation  of  '  The  Blue  Bird  ' 
as  well  as  in  the  spiritual  interpretation,  for  it  might 
change  the  fairy  dream  of  the  poet  into  an  ordinary 
extravaganza. 

"  In  this  regard,  the  play  is  all  the  time  balancing 
on  the  edge  of  a  knife.  The  text  pulls  the  play  in  one 
direction  and  the  remarks  of  the  author  in  another. 
We  must  look  at  these  remarks  with  particular  atten- 
tion and  understand  in  them  the  hidden  plot  and  inten- 
tion of  the  author.  The  ordinary  conventional  ap- 
proach to  executing  these  remarks  will  inevitably  bring 
theatricalness  which  will  convert  the  play  into  extrava- 
ganza. 

"  In  every  extravaganza,  the  walls  assume  fantastic 
contours,  and  the  public  knows  perfectly  well  that  this 
is  accomplished  by  transparencies  and  gauzes.  In  each 
ballet,  the  dancers  spring  out  from  the  parting  scenery. 
Their  gauze  costumes  have  a  similarity  just  like  sol- 
diers'uniforms.  .  .  .  A  hundred  times  we  have  seen  the 
transformation  of  Faust  and  we  know  that  his  costume 
is  pulled  down  from  him  through  a  hole  in  the  floor. 
We  are  weary  of  transparent  halls  with  running  chil- 

36 


"The  Blue  Bird"  and  Stanislavsky 

dren.  What  can  be  more  horrible  than  a  child  as  a 
theatrical  supernumerary  ? 

"  All  these  effects  carried  out  literally  according  to 
the  directions  of  the  author  will  kill  the  seriousness 
and  the  mystic  solemnity  of  the  work  of  the  poet  and 
thinker.  All  the  given  directions  are  important  for  the 
substance  of  the  play  and  they  should  be  carried  out,  — 
not  by  old  theatrical  means,  but  by  new  ones,  by  better 
ones  which  the  latest  technique  of  the  stage  has  in- 
vented. .  .  , 

"  The  decorations  must  be  naive,  simple,  light  and 
unexpected,  just  like  children's  imaginations." 

It  is  as  snug  a  little  cottage  as  you  ever  saw  that  the 
great  brown  curtains  of  the  Art  Theatre  disclose  as 
they  sweep  imperially  and  noiselessly  apart  and  out 
of  sight  at  the  sides  of  the  proscenium  arch.  Set  well 
back  inside  a  dark  colored  false  proscenium,  the  room 
is  warm  and  intimate  and  at  the  same  time  safely  out 
of  reach  and  ready  for  fairy  hands  to  transform. 
Squarely  in  front,  one  on  each  side  of  the  stage,  are  the 
substantial  wooden  cradles  of  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl.  To 
the  right,  the  clock,  and  the  door  through  which  Father 
and  Mother  Tyl  depart  on  tiptoe;  to  the  left,  the  great 
hood  of  the  fireplace  and  the  tables  on  which  the  milk 
and  the  bread  repose  in  silence;  at  the  back,  the  win- 
dows high  in  the  wall  and  the  table  beneath  them. 
Soon  the  fairy  hands  begin  their  task.  The  lamp  on 
the  table  relights  itself  and  takes  up  a  new  position 
halfway  between  floor  and  ceiling.  The  shutters  of 
the  windows  clap  open  and  reveal  the  golden  glow  of 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


the  Christmas  tree  across  the  way  against  a  background 
of  deepest  blue.  It  isn't  long  until  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl 
are  wide  awake  and  the  Fairy  has  come  and  Tyltyl  has 
the  cap  with  the  diamond  in  it.  With  one  turn  to  the 
right,  he  has  converted  the  woodcutter's  simple  cabin 
into  Aladdin's  palace.  Golden  snowflakes,  shifting 
and  changing  in  hue,  transfigure  the  things  of  every 
day,  and  even  the  roof  of  the  cottage  is  set  with  pre- 
cious stones. 

I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  the  dance  of  the  hours  as 
they  escape  from  the  clock  is  as  effective  as  it  was  in 
the  American  production,  although  it  is  a  jolly  bit  of 
grotesquerie,  but  no  comparison  is  possible  in  the  other 
moments  of  the  scene.  In  the  Russian  production,  the 
changes  by  which  Fire  and  Water  and  Milk  and  Bread 
and  the  rest  come  to  life  are  so  unobtrusive  and  so 
casual  that  it  all  takes  your  breath  as  completely  as 
it  did  that  of  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl.  Here  is  fairy  done  in 
the  spirit  of  fairy !  The  dog  and  the  cat,  too,  come  to 
life  quite  as  you  know  they  would  if  they  had  the  op- 
portunity. And  then  when  they  have  tried  in  vain  to 
return  to  their  olden  forms  and  have  been  enlisted  by 
the  Fairy  in  the  search  for  the  Blue  Bird,  the  elfin  cav- 
alcade trips  out  the  window  to  the  most  bewitching 
little  march,  a  refrain  that  returns  several  times 
throughout  the  play  whenever  the  Fairy  and  her  train 
start  anew  on  their  search  for  the  Blue  Bird.  In  it 
Ilya  Sats,  the  composer  of  the  music  for  the  production, 
has  gathered  the  entire  expectant  and  wide-eyed  won- 
der of  the  play. 

38 


"The  Blue  Bird"  and  Stanislavsky 

The  next  scene  is  indeed  at  the  home  of  the  Fairy. 
No  one  else  but  a  Greek  king  or  Gordon  Craig  would 
think  of  building  such  a  soaring  place  to  live  in.  Great 
stone  steps  run  up  until  they  are  small  and  then  disap- 
pear, still  climbing  upward.  Stone  pillars  flank  and 
follow  them  on  their  way.  And  a  vaulted  ceiling  of 
brown  and  gold  sweeps  far  upward  to  keep  them  from 
brushing  the  sky.  The  scene  is  brief  and  full  of  the 
human  nature  of  the  various  characters  as  they  clothe 
themselves  in  their  new  garments,  and  so  only  the  prac- 
ticed eye  will  stop  to  consider  how  simply  this  imposing 
picture  has  been  achieved.  In  essentials  it  consists 
only  of  two  curtains,  one  for  the  massive  staircase  and 
its  pillars  and  the  other  for  the  vaulted  ceiling  behind 
it.  But  they  have  been  designed  and  placed  by  a 
supreme  artist  and  that  makes  all  the  difference  in  the 
world ! 

Other  notable  moments  this  scene  possesses,  both 
grave  and  gay.  Probably  no  one  but  a  Russian  with 
the  strain  of  the  Oriental  in  his  imagination  would  have 
dreamed  the  costume  of  Bread  with  its  grotesque  but 
breezy  opulence  of  form  and  color.  And  that  is  a 
happy  stroke,  too,  which  directed  the  Cat  to  hold  his 
plumed  hat  so  that  it  might  look  like  his  tail.  But  the 
moment  where  Russian  genius  has  surpassed  even  the 
keen  and  sensitive  imagination  of  Maeterlinck  is  at 
the  entrance  of  Light,  when  for  a  few  moments  before 
her  radiant  presence  is  seen  at  the  door  a  choir  of  Rus- 
sian voices  is  heard  off  stage  in  a  snatch  of  Russian 
religious  song.  The  heart  leaps  at  this  moment  of  rev- 

39 


The  Russian  Theatre 


erent  imagination  and  henceforth  "  The  Blue  Bird  " 
means  more  than  it  has  ever  meant  before! 

The  third  scene  is  the  famous  one  in  the  Land  of 
Memory,  the  one  which  has  been  used  more  than  once 
in  comparing  our  own  and  the  Russian  methods  to  the 
glorification  of  the  simplicity  and  sincerity  of  the  latter. 
For  its  opening  moments  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl  are  seen 
intimately  enough  but  seemingly  at  a  considerable  dis- 
tance, walking  through  a  dimly  lit  wood.  Now  they 
have  come  to  a  sign  that  points  the  way  and  they  stop 
to  read  it.  Of  course,  it  is  not  visible  to  the  audience. 
As  they  go  on  their  way  hopefully,  the  wood  fades 
gradually,  almost  imperceptibly,  and  in  its  stead,  with- 
out crossing  the  two  pictures,  the  cottage  of  Grand- 
father and  Grandmother  Tyl  comes  into  view.  First 
of  all,  the  great  curving  lines  in  the  sky  back  of  the 
dimly  seen  gabled  roof  grow  sharp  and  clear  and  seem 
to  lead  you  back  and  down  into  this  Land  of  Memory. 
Then  the  simple  little  house  itself  with  its  tall  cocked 
hat  of  a  roof  becomes  distinct  in  the  increasing  light 
with  the  good  old  grandparents  sitting  sleeping  by  the 
door. 

If  you  are  a  very  naive  and  proper  playgoer  you  will 
still  feel  only  subconsciously  the  distance  of  the  scene, 
its  air  of  half  reality;  and  you  will  not  think  to  inquire 
of  the  surrounding  circumstances  how  this  result  is 
attained.  But  if  you  are  as  keenly  interested  in  how 
things  are  done  in  the  theatre  as  you  are  in  what  is 
done,  you  will  see  now  in  the  full,  but  not  too  full 
light  of  the  scene  that  it  is  all  being  played  at  least 

40 


"The  Blue  Bird"  and  Stanislavsky 

twenty-five  feet  back  of  the  curtain  line  and  in  addition 
behind  a  fine  meshed  gauze  screen.  Only  dimly  can 
you  see  the  curtains  that  lead  back  to  this  illuminated 
part  of  the  stage,  for  the  light  is  so  admirably  con- 
trolled that  the  intervening  distance  is  potent  but  not 
obtrusive. 

Of  course,  the  welcome  the  children  receive  is  hearty 
and  Russian.  There  is  something  about  Russian  act- 
ing in  scenes  like  this  that  has  the  naive  sincerity  of 
actual  life.  Perhaps  it  is  this  gift  variously  applied 
that  makes  the  great  bulk  of  Russian  acting  so  honest 
and  so  devoid  of  the  artificial.  And  the  farewell  is  as 
simple  and  affecting  as  the  greeting.  Then  the  cottage 
fades  as  it  came  into  view  and  Tyltyl  and  Mytyl  are 
again  in  the  wood,  where  they  find  that  the  bird  they 
had  brought  with  them  is  not  blue  after  all. 

In  some  respects  I  think  the  scene  in  the  Palace  of 
Night,  the  fourth  as  the  Art  Theatre  presents  the  play, 
is  the  most  impressive.  I  am  sure  that  no  other  stage 
picture,  no  other  work  of  art  in  any  field,  has  ever  re- 
created and  interpreted  for  me  the  awful  stillness  of 
the  night  as  this  scene  did  the  moment  the  curtains 
parted.  By  line  and  by  lighting  Stanislavsky  has 
achieved  an  unbelievable  vastness  with  still  farther  and 
illimitable  distance  stretching  out  through  a  great  arch 
of  a  window  to  a  pathway  of  quietly  winking  stars, 
while  off  to  the  right,  up  a  dimly  seen  flight  of  stairs 
and  hundreds  of  yards  back  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
is  a  vaulted  passageway,  leading  up  to  the  day,  you  are 
sure!  Somehow,  too,  the  producer  has  been  able  to 

41 


The  Russian  Theatre 


stir  in  you  the  same  feelings  and  the  same  attitude 
toward  the  course  of  events  which  Tyltyl  has.  The 
boy  is  the  protagonist  of  this  scene,  even  if  he  is  not 
throughout  the  play,  and  you  find  yourself  contemplat- 
ing each  forbidden  door  and  vault  with  the  same 
youthful  courage  and  fearlessness  as  his  and  yet  with 
the  same  desire  to  get  through  with  it  all  and  have 
your  experience  safely  behind  you. 

The  Art  Theatre  at  this  point  varies  the  Maeterlinck 
scene  text  slightly,  for  instead  of  playing  the  last  lines 
of  the  scene  before  the  theatre  curtain,  Tyltyl  and  My- 
tyl  discover  their  blue  birds  dead  in  a  glorious  bit  of 
night  forest  set  as  far  away  as  the  scene  in  the  Land  of 
Memory. 

The  Kingdom  of  the  Future  now  succeeds,  —  a  soft, 
pale,  half-formed  scene.  It  is  played  in  a  soft  but 
strong  and  glowing  light  behind  gauze  and  its  essen- 
tials once  more  are  two  curtains,  —  one  to  the  fore 
marking  off  the  scene  with  great  tall  columns,  and  the 
other  far  to  the  rear,  vaulted  as  the  scene  in  the  Palace 
of  the  Fairy  by  an  ingenious  use  of  sweeping  curved 
lines.  In  between  the  vaulted  ceiling  with  its  door  into 
the  sky  and  terrestrial  things  and  the  platforms  and 
steps  at  the  front,  where  most  of  the  action  of  the 
scene  takes  place,  is  a  depressed  space  or  garden,  add- 
ing variety  very  simply  to  the  picture.  Father  Time 
isn't  the  graybeard  of  Anglo-Saxon  tradition  nor  is 
his  scythe  like  ours,  but  he  plays  with  the  same  dignity 
we  demand  of  our  patriarch.  It  is  this  scene  which 
brings  the  strikingly  beautiful  Russian  face  into  play, 

42 


"  The  Blue  Bird"  and  Stanislavsky 

for  it  is  here  that  the  spirits  of  the  unborn  appear  in 
robe  and  hood  with  only  their  faces,  frank  and  child- 
like, uncovered.  The  waving  hands  at  the  last  is  a 
picture  that  remains  long  in  memory. 

The  last  act  is  now  reached  with  its  two  scenes,  the 
Farewell  and  the  Awakening.  The  first  of  them  is 
played  outside  the  cottage  home  of  Tyltyl  and  Myltyl  in 
the  gray  light  of  approaching  dawn.  Up  a  little  path- 
way the  cottage  stands  and  now  you  see  the  reason  for 
the  tall  gable  of  the  home  of  Grandfather  and  Grand- 
mother Tyl  in  the  Land  of  Memory.  For  Tyltyl  and 
Mytyl  live  in  the  same  kind  of  a  cottage  and  of  course 
that  is  the  kind  they  would  picture  for  their  grand- 
parents ! 

The  simple  pathos  of  the  parting  with  their  good 
friends  all,  after  their  night  of  adventure,  is  soon  suc- 
ceeded by  the  awakening  in  the  wooden  cradles  in  the 
room  where  the  play  began.  And  the  Russians  con- 
trive to  make  this  scene  as  eloquent  of  morning  and  of 
Christmas  as  they  have  made  the  previous  scenes  speak 
clearly  the  simple,  hearty  vision  of  their  author. 

There  is  not  much  to  be  said  of  the  individual  actors 
in  "  The  Blue  Bird  " ;  and  there  should  not  be  much  to 
be  said.  For  the  play  ought  really  to  act  itself  and 
the  Russians  just  let  it  do  that  very  thing.  Tcheban  as 
Tylo,  the  dog,  and  Kolin  as  Tylette,  the  cat,  however, 
contribute  such  restrained  but  suggestive  characteriza- 
tions that  our  downright  actors  of  animal  parts  might 
take  lessons  from  them  in  the  superiority  of  subtlety 
over  the  obvious.  The  comedian  of  the  cast  is  rightly 

43 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Kudryavtsyeff  as  Bread,  a  part  which  he  plays  with 
gusto  and  unction.  And  Alexeieva  has  a  sweet  moth- 
erly charm  as  Light.  The  present  Tyltyl  of  "  The 
Blue  Bird  "  is  a  girl  and  at  no  time  is  she  as  frankly 
and  straightforwardly  effective  as  young  Hampden 
of  the  American  production. 

There  is  an  engaging  rhythm  to  the  Russian  title  of 
"  The  Blue  Bird."  Transliterated  it  is  "  Sinyaya 
Ptitsa  ",  with  the  long  European  "  i  "  in  both  words  and 
the  accent  on  the  first  syllable  in  each  case.  This 
rhythm  has  been  worked  fascinatingly  into  the  march 
by  which  the  characters  start  each  of  their  successive 
searches  for  the  Blue  Bird.  Still,  I  think  the  title 
which  carries  the  simple  childlike  atmosphere  of  the 
play  best  of  all  is  the  original  which  Maeterlinck  chose, 
" L'Oiseau  Bleu" 

The  beauty  of  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  in  Moscow  is  a 
lyric  beauty.  It  is  not  the  precious  and  refined  beauty 
of  delicate  carving  on  the  one  hand.  Nor  is  it  the 
terrifying  beauty  of  some  examples  of  Russian  art. 
It  falls  halfway  in  between  these  two  extremes,  but 
it  is  no  half  mood  itself.  It  is  a  beauty  distinct  and 
definite  and  honest,  —  a  masterpiece  of  the  man  who 
is  perhaps  the  master  artist  in  the  active  modern 
theatre.  Surely  no  one  but  Stanislavsky  can  be  named 
in  the  next  breath  after  Craig  and  Appia,  the  great 
dreamers  and  theorists  of  the  modern  theatre. 


44 


CHAPTER   IV 
THE  PLAYS  OF  TCHEHOFF  AT  THE  ART  THEATRE 

THE  anarchs  of  esthetics  may  search  the  dictionary 
for  bitter  words  to  use  against  realism  in  art  and  par- 
ticularly in  the  theatre.  They  may  slay  and  bury  with 
argument  and  dialectic  the  arch  enemy  of  imagination. 
But  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  proceeds  calmly  on  its 
way,  still  making  eloquent  use  of  this  scorned  manner 
of  expression,  just  as  if  it  were  unaware  of  the  con- 
flict which  has  torn  the  modern  theatre  and  the  entire 
realm  of  art  wide  open. 

My  introduction  to  the  realism  of  the  Art  Theatre 
came  close  on  the  heels  of  my  surrender  to  the  imagi- 
native fantasies  of  "  The  Blue  Bird."  The  evening 
after  the  Maeterlinck  matinee  I  saw  Tchehoff's  "  The 
Three  Sisters  ",  and  a  few  nights  later  the  same  week, 
"  The  Cherry  Orchard  ",  his  last  and  perhaps  his  great- 
est play.  And  my  surrender  to  Tchehoff  and  to  real- 
ism was  just  as  complete.  After  that  first  week  I  saw 
both  plays  again,  with  an  emotional  reaction  deeper  and 
more  profound,  so  that  I  know  it  was  not  merely  the 
feelings  attendant  upon  making  the  acquaintance  of  a 
long-cherished  institution  that  characterized  my  first 
observation  of  them. 

45 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Whatever  may  be  one's  intellectual  convictions  con- 
cerning realism  and  its  many-formed,  still  more  or  less 
uncrystallized  opponents,  there  is  nothing  to  do  but 
to  yield  in  the  presence  of  the  realism  of  the  Art 
Theatre  and  for  the  time,  at  least,  to  forego  judgment. 
As  artist,  my  sympathies  and  instincts  are  still  with 
those  who  are  trying  to  find  a  remedy  for  realism  in 
the  theatre.  But  as  critic,  my  tongue  is  silenced. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  there  is  no  decision.  Perhaps  there 
is  room  in  a  broad  view  of  the  theatre  for  both ! 

At  this  late  date  it  is  like  explaining  the  invasion  of 
Belgium  to  go  into  minute  details  regarding  "  The 
Three  Sisters  "  and  "  The  Cherry  Orchard."  By  these 
two  plays  of  Tchehoff  and  by  his  earlier  piece,  "  The 
Sea-Gull  ",  which  established  the  success  of  the  theatre 
and  gave  it  its  insignia,  —  by  these  dramas  and  almost 
exclusively  by  them  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  has  been 
published  to  the  world.  I  shall  limit  myself,  therefore, 
to  a  few  personal  impressions  of  them  and  of  the  men 
and  the  women  and  the  methods  by  which  they  are 
made  to  live. 

I  think  the  master  key  to  the  Art  Theatre's  inter- 
pretation of  Tchehoff  and  to  its  use  of  realism  is  a 
certain  repression,  a  holding-back,  a  minimization,  — 
the  utter  pole  of  the  exaggeration  which  characterized 
the  old  florid  rhetorical  theatre  and  now  once  more  the 
theatre  of  the  impressionists  and  the  futurists.  The 
impression  came  to  me  vividly,  with  an  inherent  poig- 
nancy regardless  of  the  matter  of  the  scene,  that  this 
was  life,  not  merely  copied  but  interpreted  or  brought 

46 


The  Plays  of  Tcheho/  at  the  Art  Theatre 

to  the  point  where  there  seems  to  be  no  interpretation. 
And  this  impression  came  to  me  somehow  from  inside, 
not  as  if  the  actors  were  shrewdly  and  successfully 
copying  life  but  as  if  they  were  driven  by  some  unseen 
influence  to  live  their  lives  in  front  of  me  in  such  a  way 
that  their  joys  and  sorrows  became  clear  to  me  even 
if  they  themselves  did  not  understand.  Of  course,  it 
is  just  this  semblance,  this  interpretation  of  life  which 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  has  deliberately  set  out  to 
achieve. 

The  plays  of  Tchehoff  fit  peculiarly  into  this  method 
of  art  and  this  manner  of  interpreting  life.  Some  one 
has  said  that  the  plays  of  Tchehoff  are  inconceivable 
outside  the  Art  Theatre  and  the  Art  Theatre  inconceiv- 
able without  Tchehoff.  That  is  only  another  way  of 
saying  the  same  thing.  Tchehoff  wrote  not  as  a  phil- 
osopher and  certainly  not  as  a  propagandist.  His  aim 
seemed  to  be  to  take  life  as  he  found  it,  select  the  de- 
tails which  seemed  to  him  to  show  forth  the  heart  of 
the  characters  in  his  scene  as  well  as  the  character 
of  the  scene  itself  and  to  present  these  details,  woven 
into  a  loose  but  continuous  fabric,  much  like  the  fabric 
of  daily  life,  but  more  luminous  of  human  motives  and 
human  destinies.  The  playwright  himself,  therefore, 
began  the  process  of  minimization.  He  knew  that  ex- 
aggeration called  attention  either  to  superficial  as- 
pects when  it  was  in  the  hands  of  those  without  vision, 
or  to  the  monumental  outlines  of  life  when  it  was  used 
by  genuine  artists.  What  he  desired,  though,  was  to 
interpret  life  through  its  reticences,  its  nuances,  its 

47 


The  Russian  Theatre 


slender  moments.  And  only  by  relieving  the  tension 
and  sharpening  the  attention  could  he  reach  this  goal. 

Minimization  is  the  secret  of  "  The  Three  Sisters  " 
especially.  Its  minor  key  of  futile  ambition  and  rest- 
less, helpless  longing  would  demand  such  treatment  at 
the  hands  of  any  dramatist.  With  Tchehoff,  the  pro- 
cess is  carried  to  even  farther  limits.  The  playwright 
himself  has  set  forth  life  and  passion  and  disappoint- 
ment and  even  death  without  violent  scenes.  The  Art 
Theatre  has  translated  the  play  to  the  stage  in  sub- 
dued voices,  awkward  but  eloquent  pauses  and  a  gen- 
eral retarding  of  the  tempo  until  the  spectator  feels 
himself  almost  in  the  mood  of  the  family  in  the  Russian 
village  which  had  its  eyes  fixed  on  Moscow  but  could 
not  move  its  feet.  In  fact,  it  takes  a  day  or  two  to 
throw  off  the  spell  of  "  The  Three  Sisters  "  and  even 
longer  to  get  out  of  the  orbit  of  "  The  Cherry  Or- 
chard." 

The  power  of  "  The  Three  Sisters  ",  therefore,  is 
cumulative  and  not  climactic.  The  method  of  showing 
the  three  sisters  in  their  home,  with  their  brother, 
ambitious  as  themselves,  is  just  the  same  in  the  first  act 
as  the  method  of  revealing  them  shorn  of  their  momen- 
tary dreams  in  the  last.  By  the  last  act,  however,  you 
know  them  all  so  well  that  the  emotional  power  of  the 
same  simple  technique  has  been  multiplied  a  thousand 
times. 

Just  to  recall  the  story  of  the  play  for  those  whose 
volumes  are  not  handy :  Olga,  Masha  and  Irina  Prozo- 
roff  and  their  brother,  Andrei,  live  in  the  small  town 

48 


The  Plays  of  Tchehojf  at  the  Art  Theatre 

whither  their  father  moved  from  Moscow  years  ago 
when  his  brigade  was  transferred  there.  Olga,  the 
eldest,  has  found  herself,  after  a  manner,  in  her  work 
in  the  local  woman's  college.  Masha,  however,  was 
married  young  to  Fyodor  Ilyitch  Kuluigin,  good  but 
common  and  too  thick-witted  for  her  extremely  sen- 
sitive intelligence.  Her  unhappiness  is  just  as  great 
but  more  suppressed  than  that  of  the  youngest,  Irina, 
whose  thoughts  turn  constantly  to  Moscow  as  the  city 
of  her  dreams,  and  her  work  and  her  love  and  her 
future.  To  the  village  comes  Lieutenant-Colonel  Ver- 
shinin  to  join  the  troops  stationed  there.  A  man  of  fine 
sensibilities,  he  is  lonely  with  a  wife  who  is  mentally 
unbalanced,  and  he  and  Masha  almost  immediately  and 
instinctively  reach  out  to  each  other.  Irina  has  many 
suitors:  the  old  military  doctor,  Tchebutuikin,  one  of 
those  insufferable  characters  strangely  tolerated  as  a 
hanger-on  in  many  Russian  families;  Solyony,  a  staff 
captain,  stupid,  ill-mannered,  equally  unwelcome  but 
similarly  endured ;  and  Baron  Tuzenbach,  whose  worst 
trait  is  indecision  and  whose  best  is  his  affection  for 
the  ungrateful  Solyony.  Andrei,  the  brother,  is  am- 
bitious to  be  a  professor  in  the  university  in  Moscow. 
But  he  forgets  his  dream,  marries  Natasha,  a  light- 
headed and  fussy  young  person,  and  is  content  as  a 
member  of  the  local  council.  Masha's  flowers  wither 
when  her  new-found  companionship  with  Vershinin  is 
ended  by  the  transfer  of  the  regiment.  And  Irina, 
after  giving  up  a  part  of  her  dream  and  agreeing  to 
marry  the  Baron  in  order  to  escape  the  dullness  of  the 

49 


The  Russian  Theatre 


village  and  go  to  Moscow,  hears  of  his  death  in  a  duel 
which  the  jealous  Solyony  had  compelled  him  to  fight. 
And  so  the  three  sisters  face  the  future  in  the  dull  gray 
village.  Olga  embraces  Masha  and  Irina  as  the  mili- 
tary band  sounds  far  down  the  street  and  says :  "  The 
music  plays  so  gaily,  so  boldly,  and  one  wants  to  live ! 
Time  will  pass  and  we  shall  go  away  forever.  They 
will  forget  us;  they  will  forget  our  faces,  our  voices; 
but  our  sufferings  will  pass  into  gladness  for  those  who 
will  live  after  us.  Happiness  and  peace  will  come  on 
the  earth  and  they  will  remember  with  a  good  word 
those  who  live  now.  Oh,  my  dear  sisters,  our  lives  are 
not  yet  finished.  We  shall  live!  The  music  plays  so 
joyfully,  so  gaily,  and  it  seems  that  yet  a  little  while 
and  we  shall  know  for  what  we  live,  for  what  we  suffer. 
If  only  we  knew !  If  only  we  knew !  " 

To  me  there  are  three  great  moments  in  "  The  Three 
Sisters  ",  all  of  them  between  Vershinin  and  Masha  and 
all  of  them  deriving  their  greatness,  I  am  aware,  from 
the  acting  of  Stanislavsky  and  Mme.  Knipper.  The 
first  comes  in  the  second  act  after  the  entrance  of 
Masha  and  Vershinin.  The  room  is  dimly  lighted  and 
they  are  alone.  The  frank  but  quiet  explanation  of 
their  separate  disappointments  merges  as  frankly  into 
the  avowal  of  their  love.  There  is  a  fine  reticence  about 
Vershinin's  confession  and  an  aristocracy  in  the  way 
Masha  permits  him  to  speak  that  carries  through  this 
scene  a  poignant  but  luminous  ray  of  pain,  and  the  whole 
is  caught  up  in  a  rhythm  that  comes  dangerously  near 
closing  and  then  is  diverted  once  more  into  infinite  space. 

50 


The  Plays  of  Tchehoff  at  the  Art  Theatre 

There  is  a  similarity  in  the  matter  of  the  second  great 
moment  but  a  difference  in  tone  and  in  rhythm.  The 
act  is  the  third,  —  that  astonishing  picture  of  a  group 
of  people  waiting  up  the  night  and  wearied  by  the  ex- 
citement and  the  exhaustion  of  a  fire  in  the  village. 
There  are  others  in  the  room,  but  their  attention  is  not 
upon  Vershinin  and  Masha  over  at  the  right.  There  is 
nothing  really  to  call  attention  to  them,  for  after  the 
two  have  looked  silently  at  one  another  a  moment  their 
conversation  consists  only  of  these  syllables : 

MASHA  —  "  Tra-ta-ta?  " 
VERSHININ  —  "  Tra-ta-ta." 
MASHA  —  "  Tra-ra-ram-tam-tam?  " 
VERSHININ  —  "  Tra-ra-ram-tam-tam." 

That  is  all.  But  by  it  is  conveyed  the  most  subtle 
and  powerful  rhythm  in  the  world  —  the  silent  under- 
standing of  one  man  and  one  woman. 

The  last  great  moment,  of  course,  is  the  farewell  be- 
tween the  two  and  it  comes  near  the  end  of  the  last  act. 
Tchehoff's  lines  are  brief,  almost  bare.  Masha  enters. 

VERSHININ  —  "I  came  to  bid  you  farewell." 

MASHA  (looking  him  in  the  face} — "Farewell." 
(She  gives  him  a  lingering  kiss.) 

OLGA  —  "  Enough !  Enough !  "  (Masha  breaks  into 
tears. ) 

VERSHININ  —  "  Write  to  me.  Don't  forget !  Let 
me  go.  It  is  time.  Olga  Sergeievna,  take  her.  It  is 
time  for  me  to  go  already.  I  am  late."  (He  kisses 
Olga's  hand,  then  once  more  embraces  Masha  and 
quickly  goes  away. ) 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Out  of  these  simple  lines  Stanislavsky  and  Knipper 
have  constructed  the  proudest,  most  unaffected,  most 
deeply  moving  farewell  of  the  modern  theatre.  To 
see  it  is  to  feel  a  knife  cut  clean  through  the  heart. 
There  is  sudden,  piercing  pain  and  then  the  rush  of 
surging  feeling,  the  fear  and  the  pity  that  make  tragedy 
of  daily  lives  when  the  hand  of  a  master  touches  them. 

There  is  no  actor  on  the  English-speaking  stage  and 
I  doubt  if  there  is  one  in  the  world  to-day  who  can  do 
what  Constantin  Stanislavsky  does  in  these  scenes. 
My  mind  was  still  held  in  respect  akin  to  awe  at  Sta- 
nislavsky, producer  of  "  The  Blue  Bird  ",  when  the  cur- 
tain rose  a  few  hours  later  on  "  The  Three  Sisters." 
Through  the  first  act  I  don't  remember  noticing  Sta- 
nislavsky, actor,  any  more  than  any  of  the  others  in  the 
perfect  ensemble.  Then  I  suddenly  awoke  to  the  pres- 
ence of  towering  genius  in  that  quiet,  unobtrusive  scene 
in  the  second  act.  The  third  and  the  fourth  followed 
with  the  proud  anguish  of  that  farewell,  and  I  under- 
stood the  secret  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  Genius 
in  acting  such  as  this  is  contagious  as  the  smile  of  the 
April  sun.  And  so  to  Stanislavsky,  producer,  and 
Stanislavsky,  actor,  must  be  added  Stanislavsky, 
teacher,  and  probably  the  greatest  teacher  of  acting 
our  generation  has  known. 

And  I  think  there  is  only  one  actress  on  our  stage 
who  could  do  what  Mme.  Knipper  did  in  the  farewell 
of  "  The  Three  Sisters."  That  is  Mrs.  Fiske.  In 
fact,  Knipper  reminds  me  often  of  Mrs.  Fiske  with  her 
powerful  sense  of  rhythmic  control,  her  poise,  her  ret- 

5* 


The  Plays  of  Tchehoff  at  the  Art  Theatre 

icence,  her  intellectual  as  well  as  her  emotional  mas- 
tery of  a  scene.  I  doubt  whether  she  is  Mrs.  Fiske's 
equal  in  high  comedy,  for  I  have  the  instinctive  feeling 
that  her  sense  of  humor  is  not  strong. 

"  The  Three  Sisters  "  makes  use  of  almost  the  en- 
tire first  line  of  the  company  of  the  Art  Theatre.  Only 
Moskvin  is  missing  and  he  used  to  play  the  young  offi- 
cer Rode.  But  he  has  yielded  to  the  younger  genera- 
tion. Knipper,  as  I  have  said,  is  Masha.  Butova  and 
Germanova  take  turns  as  Olga,  the  eldest  sister.  I  saw 
Butova  only  and  found  in  her  a  fine  dignity  that  fits 
her  excellently  for  the  role  of  the  patient  adviser  of 
the  troubled  younger  sisters.  The  role  of  the  young- 
est, Irina,  has  been  entrusted  to  many  different  hands. 
Zhdanova,  a  young  player  of  fine  sensibilities  and  very 
great  promise,  now  completes  the  trio.  Lilina,  Sta- 
nislavsky's wife,  makes  a  vivid  and  incisive  etching  of 
the  fussy  and  pottering  Natasha. 

The  strength  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  company, 
however,  lies  in  its  men,  and  so  the  heavy  demands  of 
"  The  Three  Sisters  "  in  this  direction  are  readily  met. 
Of  the  first  line,  Katchaloff  probably  has  least  leeway 
to  show  what  he  can  do,  for  as  the  indecisive  Tuzen- 
bach  he  is  playing  in  a  minor  key  that  makes  no  use  of 
his  keen  intellectual  powers.  Vishnevsky  is  capital 
as  the  well-meaning  Kuluigin,  arousing  a  sense  of  sym- 
pathy along  with  a  tolerant  smile.  Massalitinoff  uses 
a  few  bold,  sure  strokes  to  paint  the  picture  of  the  irri- 
tating Solyony.  By  unobtrusive  but  telling  means, 
Luzhsky  makes  a  semi-tragic  figure  of  the  half-mood 

53 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Andrei,  the  brother  of  the  three  sisters.  Nothing 
could  be  more  eloquent  of  this  interpretation  of  the 
role  than  his  patient  attention  to  the  squeaky  baby 
carriage  under  the  trees  in  the  last  act.  Gribunin  is 
the  military  doctor,  Tchebutuikin.  Through  Artyom's 
death  a  few  years  ago,  this  role  as  well  as  the  others  he 
played  is  really  left  vacant,  for  he  was  one  of  those  ab- 
solutely unique  geniuses  which  any  art  is  likely  to  pro- 
duce once  in  a  generation  and  then  lose  the  pattern. 
Gribunin,  however,  makes  the  old  doctor  sufficiently 
trenchant  for  the  ensemble. 

"  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  has  even  less  of  a  story 
than  "  The  Three  Sisters."  Its  emotional  range  is 
much  greater,  though,  for  it  reaches  from  a  light- 
hearted  humor  to  the  bitterest  tragedy,  and  by  just  so 
much  I  think  it  is  the  greater  play.  Probably  no  one 
but  the  composer  of  "  Home,  Sweet  Home  "  has  so 
deliberately  chosen  love  of  locality  for  his  subject 
matter  as  has  Tchehoff  in  "  The  Cherry  Orchard." 
The  soul  of  this  fine-flavored  old  estate  almost  comes 
to  life  and  stalks  the  stage  through  its  possessors'  deep 
affection  for  it.  They  return  to  it  from  Paris,  hold 
it  close  and  dear  for  a  while,  and  then  have  to  give  it 
up  to  a  newer  and  a  merchant  generation  to  pay  their 
accumulating  debts.  In  "  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  the 
old  Russia  is  seen  fading  into  the  past.  A  new  age  is 
taking  its  place,  energetic  and  somewhat  heartless. 
And  now  to-day,  less  than  two  decades  later  —  so 
swiftly  do  things  move  in  Russian  destiny  —  the 
Cherry  Orchard  is  probably  changing  hands  again, 

54 


The  Plays  of  Tchehoff  at  the  Art  Theatre 

This  time  there  is  no  telling  who  will  take  it  over,  but 
there  is  little  likelihood  that  he  will  pay  for  it. 

As  in  "  The  Three  Sisters  ",  there  is  no  dramatic 
moment  of  the  highest  order  in  the  first  act.  The 
second  act,  out  under  the  trees  on  the  estate,  passes  in 
a  similarly  casual  manner.  The  scene  among  the  ser- 
vants at  its  beginning  is  a  notable  snatch  of  gentle 
comedy.  It  is  in  the  third  act  that  "  The  Cherry  Or- 
chard "  reaches  its  full  dramatic  stature  in  the  scene 
where  Lopahin  announces  that  it  is  he  who  bought  the 
Cherry  Orchard.  Tchehoff  has  laid  contrasting 
ground  for  this  scene  in  the  games  and  the  dances  of 
the  young  people  and  in  the  whimsical  quarrel  and 
reconciliation  between  Liuboff  Andreievna  and  Trofi- 
moff,  the  student  who  loves  her  daughter,  Anya.  Sud- 
denly into  this  atmosphere  of  light  heart  and  laughter 
comes  Gaieff,  the  brother  of  Liuboff  Andreievna,  with 
a  word  of  warning  and  close  on  his  heels  Lopahin, 
slightly  intoxicated,  who  blurts  out  in  answer  to  Liu- 
boff's  question  as  to  who  bought  the  Cherry  Orchard, 
"  I  bought  it !  "  And  then,  as  the  woman  who  person- 
ified her  home  sinks  silent  and  broken  into  her  seat, 
the  new  proprietor  smashes  a  chair  against  the  floor 
and  bids  them  all  proceed  with  the  dance,  for  he  is  now 
master  here! 

The  last  act  is  outwardly  less  intense  and  dramatic, 
but  inwardly  far  more  moving  and  piteous  and  in  the 
end  even  tragic.  The  living  room  of  the  first  act  is 
dismantled.  Boxes  and  packing  cases  have  replaced 
chairs  and  carpets  and  curtains.  But  if  the  greeting 

55 


The  Russian  Theatre 


of  the  Cherry  Orchard  was  like  the  welcome  of  a  per- 
son, the  farewell  is  much  more  intimate  and  touching. 
When  Gaieff  and  his  sister  linger  behind  all  the  rest 
and  seem  unable  to  tear  themselves  away  from  the  walls 
and  the  floors  that  have  been  home,  then  human  affec- 
tion for  inanimate  objects  which  have  been  hallowed  by 
human  associations  reaches  perhaps  its  most  eloquent 
moment  in  all  literature.  The  glimpse  of  tragedy  — 
only  a  glimpse,  for  more  of  it  would  be  unbearable  — 
comes  at  the  very  end  when  old  Firce,  the  butler,  for- 
gotten and  left  behind  with  the  walls  and  the  floors, 
totters  into  the  room,  only  to  find  the  doors  locked  and 
the  windows  barred.  And  so  he  draws  himself  up  into 
a  great  black  chair  and  breathes  his  last. 

Stanislavsky's  role  in  "  The  Three  Sisters  "  is  one 
of  quiet  dignity.  In  "  The  Cherry  Orchard "  as 
Gaieff,  there  is  less  serious  dignity,  even  a  genial  sense 
of  humor,  but  the  role  is  even  quieter  and  less  asser- 
tive. It  is  difficult,  therefore,  to  pick  out  moments 
when  the  actor  makes  the  part  most  eloquent.  The 
subtle  shadings,  the  sense  of  poise,  the  beauty  of  spirit, 
—  these  are  the  chief  elements  in  the  actor's  masterly 
portrait. 

Knipper  is  more  at  home  in  the  role  of  Liuboff 
Andreievna  than  she  is  as  Masha  in  "  The  Three  Sis- 
ters." This  is  true  superficially,  for  as  Masha  she 
now  looks  to  be  the  eldest  instead  of  the  second  of  the 
sisters,  while  in  "  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  the  role  she 
plays  is  almost  exactly  her  own  age.  Artists  like 
Knipper,  however,  rise  above  all  such  considerations. 

56 


The  Plays  of  Tchehojf  at  the  Art  Theatre 

And  the  reason  for  her  greater  fitness  for  her  work  in 
the  last  of  her  husband's  plays  must  be  sought  else- 
where. I  think  it  lies  in  the  leeway  which  the  role 
gives  her  for  a  more  varied  portrait.  She  is  the 
woman  of  the  world  and  of  affairs  in  the  first  act  when 
she  returns  to  her  cherished  estate  and  again  in  the 
third  when  she  sees  it  drawn  irrevocably  from  her 
grasp.  She  is  the  mother  who  has  not  had  children 
heedlessly  in  the  first  act  when  the  appearance  of  Trofi- 
moff  brings  keenly  to  mind  the  little  son  he  had  taught 
until  death  had  taken  him.  She  is  the  mother  once 
more  in  the  third  act,  the  mother  who  will  follow  her 
children  through  all  their  paths  and  their  relationships, 
not  too  closely  except  once  in  a  while ;  she  is  the  mother 
when  she  wounds  the  dignity  of  the  lover  of  her  daugh- 
ter and  then  brings  him  back  to  a  generous  reconcilia- 
tion. And  she  is  just  the  simple  human  being  shorn  of 
something  she  has  held  dear  when  in  the  final  act  her 
eyes  fill  with  tears  as  she  looks  for  the  last  time  on  the 
age-stained  walls  of  the  lost  home. 

"  The  Cherry  Orchard "  would  be  memorable  if 
only  because  it  gave  me  my  first  view  of  Moskvin, 
whom  I  have  acknowledged  since  then  as  the  greatest 
high  comedian  of  the  Russian  theatre.  As  Yepiho- 
doff,  one  of  the  servants,  he  finds  opportunity  for  one 
of  the  most  individualistic  roles  in  his  repertory. 
Whether  it  be  his  embarrassed  conversation  with  Lopa- 
hin  in  the  first  act,  or  his  singing  out  of  tune  in  the 
scene  with  the  other  servants  under  the  trees  in  the 
second,  or  his  breaking  of  the  billiard  cue  in  the  third, 

57 


The  Russian  Theatre 


or  his  heedless  disregard  of  his  hands  while  he  nails 
up  boxes  and  watches  the  departure  of  the  family  in 
the  last  act,  —  always  he  brings  the  smile  which  is  the 
reward  of  high  comedy,  never  the  uproarious  laughter 
which  is  the  boon  of  farce. 

Massalitinoff  as  the  merchant  Lopahin  justifies  the 
faith  which  he  aroused  in  the  small  role  of  Solyony  in 
"  The  Three  Sisters."  He  makes  of  the  purchaser  of 
the  Cherry  Orchard  a  man  of  common  birth,  little  edu- 
cation except  that  of  experience,  a  good  heart,  a  likable 
personality  so  long  as  he  retains  his  self-control,  and 
an  animal  with  violent  feelings  and  frank  expression 
of  them  when  he  loses  that  control. 

Perhaps  the  most  astonishing  fact  to  an  American 
who  is  used  to  seeing  an  actor  in  one  company  one  year 
and  in  another  the  next  or  even  in  several  companies  in 
the  course  of  a  single  season,  is  the  number  of  players 
in  both  of  the  Tchehoff  dramas  who  are  still  playing 
their  original  roles.  I  went  back  over  the  records  and 
I  found  that  after  over  two  hundred  and  forty  perform- 
ances and  seventeen  years  after  its  first  production, 
five  of  the  most  important  roles  of  "  The  Three  Sis- 
ters "  are  still  played  by  those  who  created  them  Febru- 
ary 13,  1901,  —  Andrei,  Masha,  Kuluigin,  Natasha 
and  Vershinin.  And  another  actor  of  the  original  cast 
is  still  in  the  list  playing  another  role.  "  The  Cherry 
Orchard  ",  only  three  years  younger,  has  six  roles  still 
played  by  those  who  created  them,  January  30,  1904, 
—  Liuboff,  Gaieff,  Simeonoff-Pishchik,  Charlotta, 
Dunyasha  and  Yasha,  while  Lilina  has  merely  changed 

58 


The  Plays  of  TchehoJJ  at  the  Art  Theatre 

from  the  role  of  Any  a  to  that  of  the  adopted  daughter, 
Varya.  Probably  no  other  company  in  the  world,  cer- 
tainly few  companies  in  the  history  of  the  theatre,  can 
point  to  such  a  record ! 

The  story  of  Tchehoff's  connection  with  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre  is  one  of  peculiar  significance  both  for 
playwright  and  playhouse.  Nothing  in  the  history  of 
the  modern  drama,  not  even  the  fortunate  cooperation 
of  Synge  and  the  Abbey  Theatre  of  Dublin,  proves 
more  conclusively  the  interdependence  of  the  drama- 
tist and  the  stage  whereon  his  work  may  be  exhibited 
with  sympathy  and  understanding. 

"  It  would  be  idle  to  measure  exactly,"  writes  the 
Russian  critic,  Ef  ros,  "  whether  Tchehoff  did  more 
for  the  Art  Theatre  or  the  Art  Theatre  more  for 
Tchehoff.  At  any  rate,  the  Art  Theatre  would  not 
be  what  it  is  if  it  had  not  been  for  '  The  Sea  Gull '  and 
'  Uncle  Vanya  '  and  the  problems  they  brought  to  the 
stage  and  to  the  actors.  It  is  equally  true  that  were 
it  not  for  the  Art  Theatre,  Tchehoff  would  not  have 
written  at  least  *  The  Three  Sisters  '  and  '  The  Cherry 
Orchard  '  in  the  form  of  dramas.  The  Art  Theatre 
deserves  well  from  the  Russian  stage  and  Russian  so- 
ciety for  having  destroyed  Tchehoff's  prejudice  that  he 
could  not  succeed  in  the  drama,  and  thus  bringing  about 
the  appreciation  of  Tchehoff  and  making  the  theatre 
dear,  necessary  and  close  to  the  people." 

Tchehoff's  name  entered  with  great  weight  into 
that  first  conversation  between  Stanislavsky  and  Nye- 
mirovitch-Dantchenko  concerning  a  popular  art  theatre. 

59 


The  Russian  Theatre 


In  the  previous  year,  1896,  "  The  Sea  Gull  "  had  failed 
at  the  Alexandrinsky  in  Petrograd,  but  the  significance 
of  this  new  force  in  Russian  dramatic  literature  was 
apparent  to  a  few.  "  It  would  be  an  exaggeration," 
Efros  writes,  "  to  say  that  the  Art  Theatre  was  created 
in  order  to  play  Tchehoff.  But  it  would  be  true  to  say 
that  the  Art  Theatre  was  created  because  the  drama- 
turgy of  Tchehoff  existed,  waiting  for  its  stage  repre- 
sentation, its  theatre,  since  it  was  misunderstood  and 
rejected  by  the  old  theatres." 

Tchehoff  appeared  for  the  first  time  at  one  of  the 
rehearsals  for  "  Tsar  Fyodor  Ivanovitch ",  which 
opened  the  first  season,  but  no  one  suspected  then  the 
tie  which  he  was  forming  with  the  theatre.  Concern- 
ing that  relationship,  Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko  has 
written : 

"  Tchehoff  did  not  know  the  theatre  in  the  first  year 
of  its  life.  And  only  few  actors  knew  of  Tchehoff. 
Many  even  began  to  know  him  and  admire  him  only 
after  associating  their  creative  powers  with  his.  Five 
years  later  he  died.  And  during  this  short  interval 
the  artistic  cooperation  was  so  intimate  that  hardly  a 
serious  rehearsal  went  by  without  the  mention  of  the 
name  of  Tchehoff." 

"  The  Sea  Gull  "  was  disclosed  on  the  stage  of  the 
Art  Theatre,  December  30,  1898, —  before  the  holi- 
days or  on  December  17,  according  to  the  Russian  cal- 
endar. Tchehoff  spent  that  winter  in  Yalta,  refused 
to  believe  the  stories  of  the  success  of  his  play  which 
his  friends  sent  him,  and  returned  to  Moscow  only  after 

60 


The  Plays  of  Tcheho/  at  the  Art  Theatre 

the  season  was  closed.  Upon  his  arrival,  however,  a 
close  friendship  sprang  up  between  him  and  the  ar- 
tists of  the  theatre,  who  wished  to  add  his  "  Uncle 
Vanya  "  to  their  repertory.  Tchehoff  had  submitted 
the  play  to  the  theatrical  literary  committee  of  the 
Small  Imperial  Theatre,  where  his  friends,  Lyensky 
and  Youzhin  and  the  regisseur  Kondratyeff,  were 
working  to  have  it  accepted.  The  committee  made 
objections  to  the  third  act,  the  playwright  refused  to 
revise  it,  and  the  manuscript  went  to  the  Art  Theatre, 
where  it  was  brought  to  the  stage  for  the  first  time  on 
November  7,  1899. 

There  were  now  two  of  his  plays  in  the  repertory 
of  the  Art  Theatre  and  yet  Tchehoff,  exiled  by  his 
health  to  a  southern  winter,  had  not  seen  either  of  them 
in  performance.  When  the  request  came  for  a  third 
play,  he  stubbornly  refused,  saying  that  he  could  not 
do  new  work  for  the  theatre  until  he  saw  how  they 
presented  the  plays  he  had  already  given  them.  And 
so  it  was  that  in  the  spring  of  1900,  the  entire  com- 
pany traveled  south  to  the  Crimea  just  to  show  "  The 
Sea  Gull  "  and  "  Uncle  Vanya  "  to  their  author.  Four 
performances  were  given  in  Sevastopol  and  eight  in 
Yalta,  with  Hauptmann's  "  Lonely  Lives  "  and  Ibsen's 
"  Hedda  Gabler "  added  for  the  sake  of  variety. 
Tchehoff  came  by  boat  to  Sevastopol,  where  the  whole 
theatre  met  him  at  the  docks.  And  then  in  Yalta,  the 
home  of  the  playwright,  built  by  himself,  and  his  gar- 
den, planted  by  himself,  were  the  rendezvous  for  a 
brilliant  excursion  group,  with  the  youthful  Gorky 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


present  in  his  budding  power  and  fame,  and  the  glory 
of  the  Crimean  springtime  over  all. 

The  new  play,  "  The  Three  Sisters  ",  was  written 
in  the  summer  of  1900  in  Yalta  and  rewritten  in  Mos- 
cow in  early  autumn.  It  was  read  to  the  actors  for 
the  first  time  in  the  presence  of  the  author,  but  during 
rehearsals  he  slipped  away  to  Nice  and  on  the  eve  of 
the  first  performance  concealed  himself  in  Naples. 
Success  was  the  play's  immediate  lot  in  Moscow  on 
its  disclosure,  February  13,  1901,  and  also  in  Petro- 
grad  at  the  end  of  the  season,  where  it  overshadowed 
"  Uncle  Vanya."  Playwright  and  playhouse  came 
closer  than  ever  together  under  the  influence  of  this 
play,  and  it  is  to  this  time  that  TchehofFs  marriage  to 
Knipper  belongs. 

Two  seasons  passed  before  the  next  play  was  ready. 
The  winter  of  1901-1902  had  been  marked  by  Ibsen's 
"The  Wild  Duck"  and  Hauptmann's  "Michael 
Kramer  ",  with  "  The  Three  Sisters  "  continuing  in 
the  repertory.  The  youthful  Gorky  had  dominated 
the  season  of  1902-1903  with  his  "  Smug  Citizens  "  and 
"  The  Lower  Depths."  The  following  winter  had 
been  devoted  in  advance  to  "  Julius  Caesar  "  and  a  new 
play  by  Tchehoff.  "  I  write  four  lines  a  day  and 
those  with  intolerable  torment,"  is  a  confession  in 
a  letter  from  Tchehoff  in  the  autumn  of  1903.  "  The 
Cherry  Orchard  "  was  finally  completed,  though,  and 
the  physicians  permitted  the  playwright  to  return  to 
Moscow  when  the  cold  dry  winter  set  in.  More  than 
ever  he  entered  into  the  life  and  the  problems  of  the 

62 


The  Plays  of  Tchehoff  at  the  Art  Theatre 

theatre,  reading  the  plays  sent  to  it  and  giving  his  opin- 
ion of  them.  From  November,  he  attended  rehearsals 
regularly  until  he  became  agitated  by  the  slow  progress 
of  such  work.  He  had  no  great  faith  in  the  play, 
either,  and  half-jokingly,  half-seriously,  he  would  say, 
"  Buy  it  for  three  thousand  rubles."  "  You  wish  to 
sell  ?  "  came  the  reply,  "  We  guarantee  ten  thousand." 

The  first  performance  took  place  January  30,  1904, 
on  the  author's  name  day,  and  his  numerous  friends  in 
Moscow  and  especially  in  the  theatre  united  to  make  it 
a  gala  occasion.  The  full  appreciation  of  the  rich 
texture  of  the  playwright's  swan  song,  however,  was 
not  fully  appreciated  until  later  seasons.  In  fifteen 
years,  "  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  has  seldom  been  out  of 
the  repertory  and  it  has  been  performed  nearly  four 
hundred  times. 

At  Tchehoff 's  death  in  July,  1904,  the  Art  Theatre 
was  left  without  a  playwright  of  the  first  rank  to  work 
in  close  cooperation  with  it.  Over  a  decade  has  passed 
and  still  the  place  of  Tchehoff  is  as  vacant  as  the  chair 
of  Synge  among  the  Irish  Players.  Whence  and  when 
will  a  successor  arise?  Will  he  be  born  out  of  the 
furnace  of  revolution?  Or  will  he  wait  the  coming 
of  a  new  order  and  a  new  peace?  Meanwhile,  there 
is  Tchehoff,  —  as  true  and  inspiring  to-day  as  he  was 
when  the  Art  Theatre  rescued  him  from  despondency 
and  encouraged  him  to  push  on  to  the  heights  of  the 
modern  drama. 


CHAPTER   V 

FROM  TURGENIEFF  TO  GORKY  AT  THE  ART  THEATRE 

TURGENIEFF,  Dostoievsky,  Gorky,  —  these  giants 
of  Russian  literature  and  drama  the  Art  Theatre  has 
made  its  own  no  less  than  Tchehoff.  Ostrovsky  it  has 
sampled,  but  for  the  most  part  it  has  left  the  perpet- 
uation of  his  memory  to  the  Small  State  Theatre.  In 
general,  the  same  method  by  which  Tchehoff  is  inter- 
preted has  served  with  equal  eloquence  for  Gorky  and 
has  instilled  new  life  and  meaning  into  the  work  of 
the  masters  of  past  generations.  That  method  in  the 
large  is  a  spiritualized  realism,  but  the  mold  is  not  used 
slavishly.  The  minimization  by  which  the  effect  of 
"  The  Three  Sisters  "  and  "  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  is 
heightened  gives  way  in  the  plays  of  Turgenieff  to  an 
easy  and  graceful  sense  of  gesture,  in  the  dramatized 
stories  of  Dostoievsky  to  a  strange  tautness  without 
strain,  and  in  the  dramas  of  Gorky  to  an  upwelling 
defiance  and  challenge  toward  life  that  approaches  the 
rhetorical. 

I  have  never  seen  anything  more  overpowering  in 
any  theatre  than  Stanislavsky's  production  of  the 
master  drama  of  Russia's  living  master  of  the  drama, 
"  Na  Dnye"  of  Maxim  Gorky.  The  play  has  been 
known  by  report  ever  since  it  was  disclosed  at  the  Art 

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From  Turgenieff  to  Gorky  at  the  Art  Theatre 

Theatre  in  the  season  of  1902-1903,  especially  since 
it  came  closer  to  us  shortly  afterwards  in  German  trans- 
lation and  production  at  the  Kleines  Theatre  in  Berlin 
and  in  English  translation  by  Laurence  Irving  at  the 
Kingsway  Theatre,  London,  in  December,  1911. 
"  Nachtasyl "  it  was  called  in  the  German  version,  and 
hence  it  was  known  to  us  for  years  as  "  A  Night's 
Lodging."  In  the  English  version  the  title  is  "  The 
Lower  Depths  ",  a  much  more  faithful  rendering  of 
the  Russian,  which  literally  means  "  On  the  Bottom." 

In  reality,  however,  it  has  never  been  known  outside 
of  Moscow,  where  the  Art  Theatre  first  exhibited  it, 
and  Petrograd,  Warsaw  and  the  cities  of  Germany 
and  Austria,  where  the  Art  Theatre  carried  it  on  tour 
in  the  spring  of  1906.  It  has  not  been  known  because 
with  its  wild  argot  of  the  Russian  slums  it  defies  trans- 
lation into  any  other  language.  It  has  not  been  known 
because  with  its  terrible  and  awe-inspiring  insight  into 
the  Russian  soul  it  defies  interpretation  by  any  one 
but  Russian  artists.  It  has  not  been  known  although 
it  has  been  played  in  many  corners  of  the  Russian 
realm,  because  only  the  most  fearless,  only  the  most 
searching  of  Russian  artists  can  plumb  Gorky's  vision 
to  its  lowest  depth  and  bring  up  from  its  unspeakable 
misery  and  degradation  the  clear  cry  of  human  faith 
and  the  gentle  whisper  of  chastening  pity. 

The  rhythm  of  any  work  of  art  is  most  perfect 
when  it  refuses  most  emphatically  to  be  made  known 
through  any  other  media  but  its  own.  If  I  were  ruth- 
lessly honest,  therefore,  I  would  leave  a  blank  page  as 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


my  mute  tribute  to  the  Art  Theatre's  production  of 
"  The  Lower  Depths  "  as  the  peak  of  the  modern  real- 
istic stage.  For,  just  as  "  The  Lower  Depths  "  admits 
of  no  adequate  transmutation  from  its  original  tongue 
and  stage,  so  does  its  embodiment  in  that  tongue  and 
on  that  stage  baffle  descriptive  and  appreciative  record. 
To  relate  its  fragile  plot  and  to  map  the  cross-skeins 
of  its  blind  human  motives  is  like  drawing  a  diagram 
of  the  score  of  Stravinsky's  "  Petrushka  "  according 
to  the  laws  of  mathematics  and  physics.  For  once,  the 
novelist  turned  dramatist  has  given  up  his  reliance  on 
mere  words,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  sympathetic  theatre, 
an  Art  Theatre  —  a  THEATRE,  in  the  strict  and  simple 
significance  of  that  word  —  has  depended  on  the  far 
more  eloquent  means  of  expression  peculiar  to  the 
dramatic  art.  "  The  Lower  Depths  ",  therefore,  is  not 
so  much  a  matter  of  utterable  line  and  recountable  ges- 
ture as  it  is  of  the  intangible  flow  of  human  souls  in 
endlessly  shifting  contact  one  with  another.  Awk- 
ward but  eloquent  pauses  and  emphases,  the  scarcely 
perceptible  stress  or  dulling  of  word  or  gesture,  the 
nuances  and  the  shadings  of  which  life  is  mostly  made 
and  by  which  it  reveals  its  meaning,  —  these  and  the 
instinctive  understanding  of  the  vision  of  the  artist  by 
those  who  seek  to  interpret  him  are  the  incalculable 
and  unrecordable  channels  through  which  "  The  Lower 
Depths  "  becomes  articulate  at  the  Moscow  Art  Thea- 
tre. 

Russia's  most  abject  social  misery  is  shown  forth 
in  Gorky's  masterpiece.     By  the  side  of  it,  the  degra- 

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From  Turgenieff  to  Gorky  at  the  Art  Theatre 

dation  of  the  French  naturalists  is  roseate  and  roman- 
tic. By  the  side  of  it,  the  despair  of  Dostoievsky  is 
sentient  and  hopeful.  The  scenes  of  "  The  Lower 
Depths  "  introduce  us  to  men  and  women  living  and 
dreaming  and  doubting  and  believing  below  the  dead 
line :  thieves  and  prostitutes  and  drunkards  and  tatter- 
demalions, their  sleek  hostess  and  her  shrivelled  mas- 
ter, and  a  pilgrim  who  is  one  of  them  and  yet  not  of 
them  and  whom  they  tolerate  because  he  understands 
them,  not  because  they  understand  him.  Death  in- 
trudes among  them,  and  jealousy  and  the  last  flicker- 
ings  of  ambition  and  revenge,  each  intrusion  stirring 
a  ripple  of  feeling  and  then  vanishing  with  only  a  trace 
upon  souls  whose  defiance  of  life  is  beaten  dull.  Long 
after  the  final  curtain  has  closed  these  night-shadows 
of  the  human  spirit  from  view,  there  echoes  in  the 
heart  of  the  stunned  observer  the  appalling  gloom  of 
the  song  they  sing : 

The  sun  it  rises  and  it  sets. 

In  my  prison  darkness  reigns. 

Day  and  night  the  warders  go,  alas !  alas ! 

Pacing  underneath  my  window. 

You  can  guard  me  as  you  like  — 
I'm  not  going  to  run  away, 
Longing,  longing  to  be  free,  alas !  alas ! 
But  rny  chains  I  can  not  break. 

Oh,  my  chains,  my  heavy  chains, 
You're  my  watchman  forged  of  iron. 
I  can't  take  you  off  and  rend  you,  alas !  alas ! 
My  soul  is  tired,  my  spirit  broken. 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


Sunbeams  never  find  me  here. 

Song  of  birds  I  have  forgot. 

My  heart  it  withers  like  the  flowers,  alas !  alas ! 

I  wish  my  eyes  would  cease  to  see. 

To  have  lived  these  hours  with  the  outcasts  of 
humankind  is  to  be  purged  through  pity  and  fear  as 
by  the  most  austere  of  Greek  tragedy.  Seared  by 
sorrow  as  no  other  race  of  our  time,  the  Russian  has 
often  emerged  in  the  pages  and  the  scenes  of  his 
artists  and  writers  as  a  god  rising  out  of  the  ashes  of 
despair  and  grovelling  debasement.  Raskolnikoff  thus 
mounts  from  the  depths  in  Dostoievsky's  "  Crime  and 
Punishment."  Tolstoy  first  lived  through  such  a  meta- 
morphosis and  then  throughout  the  rest  of  his  days 
recorded  his  experiences  in  various  guises.  But  in 
"  The  Lower  Depths  "  Gorky  has  chosen  a  still  lower 
round  of  the  ladder,  —  those  for  whom  there  is  no 
hope  in  the  mortal  flesh.  And  yet  even  here,  there  is 
the  gleam  of  the  god  in  man. 

The  astonishing  simplicity  of  the  Art  Theatre's 
embodiment  of  the  play  would  count  for  nothing  if  the 
players  had  not  seen  the  vision  with  the  playwright. 
The  drab  faithfulness  of  the  setting  would  be  an 
empty  shell  without  the  soul  of  Gorky's  men  and 
women  made  manifest  in  the  actors.  Its  gloom  and 
its  rags  and  its  filth  would  be  merely  disgusting  if  they 
were  not  fused  into  a  single  work  of  art  with  the 
pitiful  wraiths  who  stalk  among  them.  Stanislavsky 
as  the  shaggy  Satine ;  Katchaloff  as  the  Baron ;  Mosk- 
vin  as  Luka,  the  pilgrim ;  Luzhsky  as  the  touzled  Bub- 

68 


From  Turgenieff  to  Gorky  at  the  Art  Theatre 

noff;  Vishnevsky  as  the  Tatar;  Gribunin  as  the  cor- 
rupt policeman,  Miedviedieff  —  these  are  the  entire 
first  line  of  the  men  of  the  company,  with  the  exception 
of  Massalitinoff,  who  is  Satine  in  Stanislavsky's  ab- 
sence. Mme.  Knipper  used  to  play  Nastya,  but  she 
has  yielded  in  recent  years  to  Halyoutina.  With  that 
single  exception,  the  leading  roles  are  cast  as  at  the 
first  performance  nearly  a  score  of  years  ago. 

It  matters  much  in  current  chronicles  that  Maxim 
Gorky  became  propagandist  and  ceased  to  be  artist  at 
least  a  decade  ago.  In  a  long  view,  though,  that  fact 
is  of  little  consequence.  By  his  early  work,  he  has 
set  his  name  beyond  erasure  in  the  foremost  rank  of 
Russian  genius.  In  his  plays  as  in  his  novels,  Gorky 
recalls  Dickens  with  his  character  studies.  But  for 
the  sentimentality  of  Dickens  he  substitutes  the  firmer 
motivation  of  the  philosopher,  while  his  dramatic  gift 
is  a  boon  which  Dickens  would  have  envied  keenly. 
In  his  own  time  and  country,  Gorky  challenges  com- 
parison most  frequently  with  Tchehoff  and  Andreieff. 
From  that  process,  Tchehoff  emerges  as  dramatist 
alone,  Andreieff  as  dramatist  and  propagandist,  and 
Gorky  as  dramatist  and  philosopher.  Through  the 
lips  of  Satine  in  those  lines  of  Promethean  defiance  in 
the  last  act,  Gorky  the  philosopher  speaks.  And  his 
philosophy,  like  that  of  all  virile  imaginations,  is 
the  philosophy  of  the  superman,  a  superman  Russian- 
ized and  humanized  from  the  stark  sublimity  of 
Nietzsche. 

To  the  English-speaking  world,  Ivan  Turgenieff  is 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


known  wholly  as  a  novelist,  but  in  Russia  he  has  the 
added  reputation  of  dramatist.  I  saw  four  of  his  plays 
in  the  repertory  at  the  Art  Theatre.  Chief  of  them 
is  "  A  Month  in  the  Country  ",  a  somewhat  sober 
comedy  in  five  acts  revived  by  Stanislavsky  in  the  sea- 
son of  1909-1910.  Three  others,  briefer  pieces,  are 
grouped  in  a  single  bill :  "  The  Boarder  ",  only  the  first 
act  of  which  is  played;  "  Where  It  Is  Thin,  There  It 
Tears  ",  and  "  The  Lady  from  the  Provinces." 

In  "  A  Month  in  the  Country  ",  as  in  much  of  his 
writing,  Turgenieff  is  autobiographical,  telling  the 
story  of  his  own  disappointed  romance  as  a  youth  in 
his  early  twenties  before  he  left  Russia  to  live  abroad. 
His  love  for  the  wife  of  a  friend,  partially  but  not 
wholly  returned,  cast  a  shadow  over  the  young  man 
which  was  instrumental  in  his  departure  from  Russia. 
Stanislavsky  and  Katchaloff  alternate  in  the  central 
role  of  Rakitin.  I  saw  Katchaloff  make  it  one  of  his 
most  suave  and  gracious  characterizations.  Whenever 
Stanislavsky  plays  the  part,  as  he  is  shown  in  the 
accompanying  photograph,  he  makes  up  to  look  exactly 
like  the  portraits  of  Turgenieff  of  the  period  of  1840. 

Like  most  novelists  who  turn  to  the  drama,  Tur- 
genieff carries  the  narrative  technique  to  the  stage. 
The  result  is  a  play  without  clash  or  climax,  a  leisurely 
arranged  juxtaposition  of  characters  and  scenes  drawn 
with  the  sure  hand  and  the  faultless  taste  of  a  literary 
master.  "  A  Month  in  the  Country  "  is  the  faithful 
record  of  life  among  the  great  landed  proprietors  in 
the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  imported  France 

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From  Tur  genie f  to  Gorky  at  the  Art  Theatre 

crossed  with  native  Russia.  And  this  record  is  set 
forth  with  all  the  urbanity,  the  distinction,  and  the 
style  of  "  A  Sportman's  Notebook  ",  "  Virgin  Soil  ", 
"  Fathers  and  Children  "  and  "  Smoke." 

The  shorter  plays  in  like  manner  are  rambling  and 
sketchy,  —  a  novelist's  outing  in  the  theatre.  Sharply 
etched  portraits  and  an  inimitable  style  distinguish 
them  all,  rather  than  their  modicum  of  dramatic  ac- 
tion. For  all  four  pieces,  the  artist,  M.  V.  Dobuzhin- 
sky,  has  designed  settings  and  costumes  happily  in 
keeping  with  the  gentility  of  a  gracious  age. 

Other  plays  that  passed  my  observation  brought  out 
one  phase  or  another  of  the  Art  Theatre's  method  of 
spiritualized  realism.  Sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of 
"  In  the  Claws  of  Life  "  and  "  At  the  Tsar's  Door  ", 
two  plays  by  Knud  Hamsun,  the  Norwegian  dramatist, 
the  theatre  seems  to  bestow  virtues  upon  the  manu- 
script which  it  does  not  rightly  possess.  Once,  in 
SurgutchofFs  "  Autumn  Violins ",  a  quadrangle  of 
contemporary  affections,  I  felt  that  the  play  verged 
dangerously  near  the  sentimental,  although  the  actors 
worked  faithfully  to  carry  it  to  a  higher  mood.  The 
third  act  is  notable  for  one  of  the  crowded  ensemble 
scenes  in  which  the  Art  Theatre  apparently  delights. 
The  greater  the  challenge  to  convey  the  similitude  of 
life,  the  more  eager  Stanislavsky  and  his  artists  seem 
to  be  to  overcome  the  inherent  difficulties.  It  is  a 
triumph  of  this  kind  in  the  reception  scene  in  Griboyed- 
off 's  "  Gore  ot  Uma "  which  distinguishes  the  Art 
Theatre's  production  of  this  fine  old  Russian  classic 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


from  that  at  the  Small  State  Theatre.  A  great  deal 
might  be  said  of  Saltuikoff-Shchedrin's  comedy,  "  The 
Death  of  Pazuhin  ",  with  its  ample  opportunities  for 
Moskvin  as  high  comedian,  but  the  problems  of  realism 
on  the  stage  involved  in  it  are  more  vividly  displayed 
in  the  plays  of  Tchehoff. 

Three  times  in  its  twenty  years,  the  Moscow  Art 
Theatre  has  delved  into  Dostoievsky  and  brought  to 
its  stage  a  group  of  scenes  which  approximate  the 
form  of  a  play  sufficiently  to  justify  their  adaptation 
from  their  original  metier.  The  first  of  the  novels  to 
yield  to  this  treatment  was  "  The  Brothers  Karamaz- 
off  "  in  the  season  of  1910-1911.  "  Nikolai  Stavro- 
gin  "  followed  in  1913-1914.  The  latest  borrowing 
from  the  pages  of  the  greatest  novelist  is  also  the 
latest  production  at  the  Art  Theatre,  —  "  The  Village 
Stepantchikovo."  First  revealed  in  1917,  it  had  just 
passed  its  thirtieth  performance  when  I  left  Russia. 
It  is  one  of  the  earlier  and  shorter  works  of  Dostoiev- 
sky, having  been  published  in  1859  in  two  hundred 
pages,  and  it  has  not  yet  been  reached  in  translation 
into  English. 

The  greatest  novelist  is  passionately  interested  in 
humanity,  the  human  spirit  as  it  expresses  itself  con- 
cretely in  the  individual.  When  you  have  finished 
one  of  his  novels,  especially  one  of  his  greater  works, 
you  do  not  think  of  it  as  a  story.  You  have  no  recol- 
lection of  plot.  You  have  been  living  with  a  group 
of  people  who  have  laid  bare  their  souls  to  you  with- 
out realizing  what  they  have  done.  The  novelist  is 

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From  Turgenieff  to  Gorky  at  the  Art  Theatre 

merely  the  channel  through  which  their  spirit  speaks 
to  your  spirit.  He  has  effaced  himself,  completely, 
utterly. 

And  so  with  "  The  Village  Stepantchikovo  ",  the 
story  means  nothing  unless  first  of  all  the  characters 
live  vividly.  Chief  of  them  is  Foma  Fomitch  Opiskin, 
a  man  of  good  birth  but  fallen  fortune  who  has  been 
attached  to  the  household  of  an  old  general  as  a  kind 
of  companion.  At  the  general's  death,  he  stays  on, 
serving  the  widow  similarly.  Little  by  little,  he  has 
gained  almost  complete  mastery  over  the  entire  house- 
hold and  estate,  including  not  only  the  widow  but  the 
general's  son  as  well,  Colonel  Yegor  Ilyitch  Rostanieff. 
This  power  he  uses  to  worry  even  the  servants  and  the 
peasants  in  the  field  by  compelling  them  to  learn  French 
and  study  foreign  manners  and  customs.  He  is  par- 
ticularly bitter,  in  his  dangerously  incomplete  educa- 
tion, against  Russian  literature. 

Yegor  Ilyitch,  the  colonel,  is  a  good-hearted  but 
weak-willed  fellow  who  is  an  easy  tool  in  Foma's 
hands. 

Sergei  Alexandrovitch  is  the  colonel's  nephew,  a 
young  man  just  home  from  school  who  bears  the 
tyranny  of  the  usurper  with  bad  patience. 

Stepan  Alexandrovitch  Bakhcheieff  is  a  neighboring 
landowner,  gruff  and  puffingly  fat,  with  a  temper  that 
rises  and  falls  like  a  barometer  in  April.  His  linen 
duster  suit  hangs  on  him  like  sails  on  a  ship  in  a  calm, 
and  when  he  sits  down,  their  generous  folds  blot  out 
all  sense  of  human  form.  Although  it  is  no  direct 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


concern  of  his,  he  is  indignant  over  the  way  Foma 
Fomitch  has  extended  his  despotic  rule  over  the  col- 
onel's family. 

The  General's  widow  is  a  petulant,  unhappy  soul 
surrounded  by  a  sour  group  of  old  maids  of  a  similar 
status  to  that  of  Foma. 

Tatiana  Ivanovna  is  one  of  the  characters  who 
stamp  "  The  Village  Stepantchikovo  "  as  unmistakably 
Dostoievsky.  Wild-eyed  and  highly  strung,  she  seems 
always  just  out  of  control  of  her  speech  and  actions, 
—  a  lost  spirit  hunting  for  its  body. 

Nastyenka  is  the  governess  of  the  colonel's  mother- 
less children,  a  simple  modest  girl. 

Yevgraph  Larionovitch  Yezhevikin  is  Nastyenka's 
father,  also  of  a  status  similar  to  that  of  Foma,  but 
better  natured  and  weaker  and  therefore  little  more 
than  the  court  fool  in  his  old  age. 

Sasha  is  the  colonel's  daughter,  a  fresh,  vigorous 
young  girl  just  the  opposite  of  her  father.  There  are 
other  relatives  and  attendants  and  servants  and 
peasants. 

The  first  of  the  seven  scenes  of  the  play  is  in  the 
yard  next  the  blacksmith  shop  on  the  estate  of 
Bakhcheieff.  In  a  broken-down  coach  a  peasant  from 
one  of  the  villages,  which  Yegor  Ilyitch  proposes  to 
give  to  Foma,  is  found  just  recovering  from  a  spree 
which  he  had  begun  in  an  effort  to  forget  Foma's 
torments.  Bakhcheieff  orders  him  from  the  premises 
and  turns  to  see  a  young  man  who  proves  to  be  Sergei 
Alexandrovitch,  just  home  from  school.  The  elder 

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From  TurgeniejJ  to  Gorky  at  the  Art  Theatre 

man  in  vehement  mouth fuls  explodes  with  the  various 
details  of  Foma's  misrule  and  the  colonel's  helpless- 
ness. The  next  scene  brings  Sergei  and  his  uncle,  the 
colonel,  together  to  discuss  the  boy's  return.  Yegor 
Ilyitch  has  sent  for  Sergei  to  come  home  and  marry 
Nastyenka,  but  meanwhile  he  has  fallen  in  love  with 
her  himself. 

Tea  at  the  colonel's  is  the  third  scene.  It  seems 
more  like  tea  at  Foma's,  for  the  entire  family  is  gath- 
ered at  the  table  with  only  the  large  easy  chair  at  its 
head  awaiting  the  coming  of  the  despot.  The  room 
is  one  of  those  sombre  affairs  which  the  middle  nine- 
teenth century  produced  in  every  country.  Into  it 
the  colonel  brings  his  nephew  to  introduce  him  to  the 
family  circle.  The  task  proves  to  be  an  awkward  one, 
for  the  mother  of  the  colonel  is  hostile,  the  old  maids 
follow  suit,  the  boy's  own  sister  has  to  control  her 
feelings  strictly  and  Tatiana  makes  a  scene  such  as 
only  a  queer  character  in  Dostoievsky  can  make.  A 
few  moments  later,  Tatiana  creates  still  more  of  a 
disturbance  by  casually  taking  a  rose  from  a  vase, 
throwing  it  at  Sergei  and  then  madly  dashing  from 
the  room. 

While  waiting  for  Foma,  the  colonel  is  unable  to 
avoid  the  subject  which  creates  all  the  family  troubles 
and  begins  discussing  the  usurper.  He  says  that  he 
never  feels  as  if  he  were  in  his  own  home  and  he 
wouldn't  be  here  now  if  it  were  not  for  Sergei.  In 
reply,  his  mother  strikes  back,  defending  Foma. 
Sasha  in  turn  comes  to  the  defense  of  her  father  and 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


says  it  is  quite  time  to  speak  out.  Foma  Fomitch  is 
a  fool.  Her  father  is  completely  in  his  hands,  and  if 
things  go  as  they  have  been  going,  he  will  have  all  the 
villages  on  the  estate  in  his  control.  The  colonel's 
mother  faints  in  her  chair  and  there  is  a  general  uproar 
until  Foma  is  announced,  when  they  all  settle  down 
to  await  the  triumphal  entry. 

Foma  has  been  teasing  one  of  the  boys  of  the 
family,  Falalei,  and  he  continues  the  process  after  he 
has  reached  the  table,  neglecting  his  tea  and  refusing 
to  be  introduced  to  Sergei  in  order  to  ask  silly  ques- 
tions of  the  worried  and  sobbing  youngster.  This 
pastime  he  merges  into  a  violent  attack  on  Russian 
writers,  and  he  easily  gets  the  better  of  the  colonel 
when  the  latter  tries  to  oppose  him,  for  he  really  is 
well  read  and  has  a  quick  tongue.  When  he  humil- 
iates Gavrila,  an  old  servant,  it  is  too  much  for  Sergei, 
and  the  young  man  loses  his  patience  for  the  first  time, 
calling  Foma  a  drunken  fool.  White  with  rage,  Foma 
has  to  be  held  back  to  keep  him  from  assaulting  Sergei, 
and  with  him  at  the  head  the  entire  family  dashes 
madly  from  the  room. 

Scenes  follow  in  which  Sergei  finds  that  his  uncle 
was  as  indecisive  in  the  matter  of  marrying  him  to 
Nastyenka  as  he  is  in  his  attitude  toward  Foma.  Nas- 
tyenka  is  not  in  love  with  either  Sergei  or  his  uncle. 
While  they  are  talking,  a  quarrel  is  heard  in  another 
room  and  the  colonel  enters  in  a  towering  rage,  declar- 
ing that  either  he  or  Foma  has  to  leave  the  house. 
Foma  himself  soon  enters  and  the  colonel,  somewhat 

76 


From   Theatre  Arts    Magazine 

A  CORNER  IN  THE  OLD  KREMLIN  PALACE,  A  SCENE  FROM  ACT  V  OP  COUNT  ALEXEI 
TOLSTOY'S  "TSAR  FYODOH  IVANOVITCH" 


From  Theatre   Arts  Magazine 
A  SCENE   FROM  ACT   III,   "THE    WASTE,"   IN    MAXIM   OORKY's  "THE   LOWER   DEPTHS" 

FROM    REGAL   SPLENDOR    TO    RAGGED    MISERY   AT    THE    MOSCOW   ART 

THEATRE 


Photograph  by  the  Author;  from  Theatre  Arts  Magazine 

THE  LOBBY  OF  THE  MOSCOW  ART  THEATRE,  TEMPTING  PROMENADE 
FOR  THE  VISITOR  DURING  INTERMISSIONS,  WITH  PANELED  PANORAMA 
OF  PLAYWRIGHTS  OF  ALL  COUNTRIES  AND  PAST  PRODUCTIONS  OF 

THE  THEATRE 

I    r. 


From  Turgenieff  to  Gorky  at  the  Art  Theatre 

subsiding,  offers  the  elder  man  fifteen  thousand  rubles 
to  leave.  Foma,  however,  turns  this  into  an  insult, 
spits  on  the  money  and  scatters  it  all  over  the  floor. 
Yegor  now  yields  once  more  and  in  reparation  for  his 
insult  agrees  to  repeat  phrase  by  phrase  after  Foma 
this  speech:  "  Your  Majesty,  I  am  delighted  at  last  to 
have  an  opportunity  to  ask  pardon  before  you,  because 
at  first  I  did  not  know  the  soul  of  Your  Majesty.  I 
can  assure  Your  Majesty  that  never  in  future  will  I 
do  anything  of  the  sort  again."  Few  scenes  in  all 
Dostoievsky  show  forth  human  nature  acting  more 
completely  under  unconscious  impulse. 

The  last  scene  is  the  most  astonishing  in  its  ensemble 
and  the  most  dramatic  in  its  contrasts.  It  takes  place 
in  the  great  parlor  at  the  colonel's.  Foma  has  deter- 
mined to  leave,  or  at  least  to  pretend  to  leave.  You 
can  not  be  quite  sure,  for  possibly  he  is  not  quite  sure 
himself.  He  is  urged  to  remain  by  the  colonel  but 
turns  on  the  latter  and  casts  insinuations  on  him  and 
Nastyenka.  Yegor  Ilyitch  listens  to  him  awhile  in 
peace  and  then,  taking  him  by  the  collar,  hurls  him 
bodily  through  the  glass  door  out  into  a  terrific  thun- 
derstorm, which  is  playing  a  vigorous  accompaniment 
to  the  storm  within.  There  is  endless  weeping  and 
wailing  until  the  outcast  king  returns  from  the  ditch 
where  his  horses  threw  him.  He  has  become  penitent, 
however,  and  at  Yegor's  demand  he  asks  Nastyenka's 
pardon.  Rising  from  his  chair,  Foma  joins  their 
hands  and  blesses  them,  and  the  play  closes  with  them 
all  around  the  bread  and  the  candles  and  the  icon. 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


A  family  has  achieved  happiness  through  misfor- 
tune, peace  through  discord  and  self-respect  through 
humiliation. 

"  The  Village  Stepantchikovo  "  is  not  a  play  in  the 
limited  sense  of  the  word.  The  Art  Theatre  realizes 
that  and  simply  groups  the  seven  scenes  without  call- 
ing those  groups  acts.  Then,  too,  realizing  that  em- 
phasis on  the  characters  and  not  on  the  story  is  the 
secret  of  understanding  Dostoievsky,  it  has  adopted  a 
unique  device  in  the  programme,  for  first  of  all  in  bold 
type  the  name  of  the  actor  is  printed  and  afterwards, 
in  parentheses,  the  name  of  the  role  he  plays.  The 
Moscow  Art  Theatre,  with  its  strict  rule  of  the  imper- 
sonal in  art,  its  absolute  refusal  to  permit  curtain  calls, 
its  prompt  smothering  of  all  applause,  is  the  last  thea- 
tre in  the  world  to  attract  attention  to  the  actor's 
name  and  personality  without  a  strong  and  definite 
purpose.  That  purpose  I  interpret  as  an  attempt  to 
make  the  individuals  peopling  Dostoievsky's  pages 
stand  out  and  live  as  in  life.  For  the  four  hours  of 
the  play,  the  actors  are  these  characters.  To  print 
their  names  prominently,  therefore,  is  to  reduce  for 
the  spectator  the  number  of  steps  by  which  his  mind 
grasps  this  fact. 

Moskvin  as  Foma,  Massalitinoff  as  the  colonel  and 
Gribunin  as  the  gruff  Bakhcheieff  bear  the  chief  bur- 
den of  the  acting.  It  is  the  ensemble,  however,  the 
ensemble  that  only  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  knows 
how  to  attain  without  a  sense  of  fuss  and  effort,  which 


From  Turgenieff  to  Gorky  at  the  Art  Theatre 

knits   these    and   many    other   interesting   individual 
pieces  of  acting  into  a  close-woven  design. 

To  see  such  a  production  at  any  time,  anywhere,  is 
to  stand  almost  in  awe.  To  see  it  now  in  Russia  and 
to  know  that  it  was  brought  to  life  in  a  Russia  spent 
and  wearied  with  war  —  to  see  it  now  in  Russia,  still 
presented  with  all  the  calm  dignity  that  is  Dostoievsky, 
even  though  the  Theatre  Square  a  few  blocks  away 
is  covered  with  blood-stained  snow,  and  even  though 
there  may  be  many  in  the  audience  and  on  the  stage 
who  are  actually  hungry  —  that  is  to  know  the  real 
Russia,  the  Russia  of  which  Dostoievsky  wrote  so  that 
the  world  might  know  the  heights  and  the  depths 
which  his  people  had  found  in  the  human  spirit. 


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CHAPTER   VI 
THE  STUDIOS  OF  THE  Moscow  ART  THEATRE 

THE  Moscow  Art  Theatre  is  not  taking  any  chances 
with  the  insecurity  of  fame  after  death.  It  does  not 
propose  to  die  at  all.  And  so,  under  the  guidance  of  its 
first  artist,  the  stalwart,  snow-white,  sunny  Stanislav- 
sky, and  in  the  prime  of  its  first  generation,  it  is  writ- 
ing off  in  advance  the  inevitable  passing  of  that  gener- 
ation by  training  up  a  new  one  to  take  its  place.  Orig- 
inally in  its  school  and  now  for  five  years  in  its  First 
and  Second  Studios,  the  world's  first  theatre  is  prepar- 
ing to  perpetuate  itself  and  to  insure  Russia's  dramatic 
future. 

The  idea  of  a  school  of  acting  in  connection  with  a 
theatre  is  not  very  new,  especially  in  continental  Eu- 
rope where  the  playhouses  are  institutional  and  the  ac- 
tors rarely  stray  from  the  ancestral  dressing  rooms. 
That  is  the  way  Stanislavsky  began  years  ago  to  recruit 
new  blood  for  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  But  about  the 
time  the  war  denied  us  our  artistic  and  esthetic  bulle- 
tins from  Russia,  Stanislavsky  founded  the  First  Stu- 
dio and  a  year  or  two  later  the  Second,  —  genuine 
theatres  open  to  the  public,  with  homes  of  their  own 
and  their  own  repertories.  When  I  reached  Moscow, 
prepared  to  record  the  swan  song  of  the  Russian 

80 


The  Studios  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 

Theatre  under  the  Revolution,  I  found  the  swan  had 
no  intention  to  sing  and  that  these  two  lusty  children 
of  the  Art  Theatre  in  particular  were  laying  and  hatch- 
ing their  plans  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  revolu- 
tion in  Russia  and  war  in  the  world.  Under  a  tense 
and  straitened  economy,  the  parent  institution,  like  the 
state-endowed  theatres  and  many  others,  has  to  be  con- 
tent with  revivals  from  its  rich  and  varied  repertory, 
but  the  Studios  seem  to  take  delight  in  overcoming  odds 
and  adding  to  the  chronicle  of  their  accomplishments. 
Their  tickets,  sold  by  lot  to  a  clamoring  multitude  like 
those  of  the  Art  Theatre,  are  gone  days  in  advance  of 
the  performance,  so  that  if  the  guns  start  barking  un- 
expectedly about  curtain  time  too  near  the  entrance, 
the  box  office  has  a  Chinese  puzzle  to  solve  in  exchang- 
ing the  unused  coupons  for  a  later  performance. 

I  had  not  been  in  Moscow  many  days  when  I  found 
that  Stanislavsky  was  really  anxious  lest  I  pack  up 
under  the  pressure  of  war  and  separate  peace  and  the 
Terror  and  go  home  without  seeing  the  Studios.  I 
would  see  the  Art  Theatre  itself,  of  course,  —  the  plays 
of  Tchehoff  and  Gorky  and  the  rest.  But  the  Studios, 
the  creatures  of  his  elder  fancy,  —  here  centered  his 
pride  and  his  affection.  Yet,  as  you  go  and  come  in 
Moscow,  there  is  no  undue  emphasis  on  their  existence, 
no  untoward  reclame.  Their  fixtures  are  listed  mod- 
estly at  the  bottom  of  the  Art  Theatre  posters.  I 
know  many  people  in  Moscow  who  have  never  sat  in 
their  tiny  audience  rooms,  some  who  have  scarcely 
heard  of  them.  They  exist  primarily  for  the  young 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


actors,  to  prepare  them  for  the  exacting  duties  of  the 
parent  stage.  But  a  theatre  is  not  a  theatre  unless  it 
has  an  audience.  And  so  the  audience,  the  right  kind 
of  an  audience,  appreciative  but  exacting,  is  gathered 
in  this  quiet  way.  I  can  not  help  contrasting  the  cor- 
dial dignity  of  Moscow  with  the  heat  and  the  fuss  and 
the  plumage  with  which  we  drum  up  an  audience  for 
our  theatres  similarly  Little. 

Although  the  Studio  Theatres  are  as  self-sufficient  as 
a  short  story,  their  personnel  fits  closely  into  the  sched- 
ule of  the  Art  Theatre,  for  which  and  by  which  they 
exist.  There  is  hardly  a  play  at  headquarters  in  Kam- 
ergersky  Pereulok  without  some  of  the  young  men  and 
women  of  the  Studios  in  its  cast.  The  minor  roles 
fall  to  them  in  preparation  for  the  greater  ones  to  come. 
But  the  relationship  is  not  altogether  one-sided,  for 
occasionally  the  elders  step  down  from  their  heights 
to  act  with  the  novices,  thus  giving  point  and  purpose 
and  perspective  to  the  Studio  production  and  a  potent 
example  by  contact  for  the  players  themselves.  While 
I  was  in  Moscow,  still  another  purpose  was  found  for 
the  First  Studio  when  Leonidoff,  one  of  the  leading 
members  of  the  parent  company,  after  a  serious  illness 
resumed  acting  in  the  Studio  until  he  had  fully  re- 
gained his  strength. 

It  is  well  for  the  makers  of  Little  Theatres  in  Mos- 
cow that  Russian  architecture  is  ample  and  generous 
in  its  dimensions.  All  that  is  needed  to  construct  an 
auditorium  and  a  stage  is  to  take  some  private  man- 
sion which  has  outworn  its  glory  or  an  abandoned  club 

82 


The  Studios  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 

or  office  quarters,  extend  the  passageway  between  two 
rooms  to  the  width  of  a  proscenium  arch,  equip  one 
of  the  rooms  for  the  audience  and  the  other  for  the 
actors  and  start  rehearsals.  That  has  been  the  gene- 
sis of  more  than  one  theatre  in  Moscow,  and  it  is  the 
present  estate  of  the  two  Studio  Theatres  of  the  Art 
Theatre.  The  First  Studio  is  housed  in  the  commodi- 
ous second  floor  of  such  a  structure  on  the  north  side 
of  Skobelieff  Square,  about  two  blocks  up  the  Tvers- 
kaya  from  the  parent  stage,  while  the  Second  Studio, 
younger  and  less  pretentious  and  partaking  more  of 
the  nature  of  a  school,  is  encamped  across  the  city  in 
Miliutinsky  Pereulok  near  the  Telephone  Building. 
Neither  auditorium  seats  more  than  one  hundred  and 
fifty  guests,  and  the  refreshment  and  promenade  par- 
lors, while  small,  are  commodious  for  that  number. 
There  is  so  little  of  the  aspect  and  circumstance  of  a 
theatre  about  them  that  you  feel  as  if  you  were  attend- 
ing a  performance  in  a  private  home. 

Fulfilling  the  function  of  a  school,  the  Studios  are 
organized  with  a  view  to  training  their  members  as 
widely  and  as  practically  as  possible  in  the  various 
crafts  of  the  art  of  the  theatre.  Their  public  perform- 
ances are  only  a  part  of  that  routine,  not  an  end  in 
themselves.  On  no  other  basis,  of  course,  could  they 
exhibit  so  rich  a  repertory  to  so  small  an  audience. 
Both  Studios  are  under  the  personal  supervision  of 
Stanislavsky,  but  he  works  through  a  corps  of  young 
men  and  old  from  the  staff  of  the  Art  Theatre  who 
have  demonstrated  their  fitness  to  train  and  advise  the 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


candidates  for  the  parent  stage.  Stahovitch,  a  member 
of  the  Direction  of  the  Art  Theatre  and  a  former 
colonel  in  the  Russian  army,  is  particularly  entrusted 
with  the  Second  Studio  with  Yevgeny  Kaluzhsky,  a 
fine  spirited  young  man,  and  his  eager  wife  as  the 
active  tutors  and  guides  for  the  enthusiastic  boys  and 
girls  in  the  ranks  of  the  beginners.  Lazarieff,  —  de- 
tailed by  Stanislavsky  to  look  after  my  personal  needs, 

—  and     Sushkyevitch,     Bolyeslavsky     and     Pavloff, 

—  these  are  a  few  of  the  preceptors  who  lead  the  play- 
ers of  the  First  Studio  to  their  goal  by  acting,  produc- 
ing, advising  and  administering  with  those  of  less  ex- 
perience. 

Of  the  productions  at  the  First  Studio,  by  far  the 
most  successful  is  "  Twelfth  Night ",  the  most  truly 
Tudor  "  Twelfth  Night  "  I  have  ever  seen  in  any  coun- 
try. Usually  the  Studios  follow  the  precept  of  the  Art 
Theatre  by  the  use  of  a  vividly  spiritualized  realism 
as  their  dramatic  method.  Here,  however,  to  the  great 
joy  of  Stanislavsky  who  sat  near  me  at  the  dress  re- 
hearsal, the  young  people  unfolded  their  Shakespeare 
in  a  series  of  simple,  suggestive  scenes,  fixing  the  locale 
by  a  bit  of  furniture  or  tapestry  or  garden  wall  in  one 
corner,  while  the  rest  of  the  stage  was  hung  with  un- 
obtrusive curtains.  To  make  the  progress  of  the  play 
continuous,  these  curtains  swung  alternately  to  the 
right  and  the  left,  and  behind  them  the  suggestive  bits 
of  the  following  scene  were  set  with  a  quietness  un- 
natural to  one  used  to  the  alert  methods  of  our  scene 
shifters. 

84 


ACT  i,  SCENE  5 — OLIVIA:   "LOOK  YOU,  SIR,  SUCH  A  ONE  i  WAS  THIS  PRES- 
ENT:  IS'T  NOT  WELL  DONE?" 

Baklanova  as  Olivia,  and  Suhatcheva  as  Viola. 


Borakohieff,  Moscow 

ACT  IV,  SCENE  1 OLIVIA1.    "HOLD,  TOBY',    ON  THY  LIFE,  I  <  IIAIICK  THEE, 

HOLD!" 

"TWELFTH  NIGHT"  AT  THE  FIRST  STUDIO  OF  THE  MOSCOW  ART 

THEATRE 


The  Studios  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 

The  Russians  are  not  more  guiltless  than  other  na- 
tions in  their  rearrangement  of  the  original  text  of 
Shakespeare.  By  the  simplicity  of  its  staging,  how- 
ever, the  Studio  is  able  to  use  most  of  the  text,  even 
if  its  method  does  involve  frequent  displacement  of 
the  order  of  the  scenes.  Intimacy  is  the  result  of  a 
stage  on  the  same  level  with  the  front  row  of  chairs  in 
the  audience  and  less  than  two  yards  distant,  but  it  is 
an  impersonal  intimacy  because  the  actors  never  let 
themselves  become  aware  of  the  audience.  Even  when 
as  in  one  scene  they  step  off  the  ground  cloth,  which 
alone  marks  the  stage,  and  use  the  normal  exit  from  the 
auditorium  and  the  foyer  as  a  continuation  of  a  street 
scene,  they  are  in  another  world. 

"  Twelfth  Night "  at  the  First  Studio  is  presented 
in  thirteen  episodes  or  "  pictures."  The  first  is  at 
Orsino's  palace;  the  right  corner  of  the  stage  discloses 
a  drapery  of  Renaissance  tapestries  which  fall  care- 
lessly over  a  simple  throne.  To  the  left  is  the  unob- 
trusive blue  curtain  which  swings  f anlike  to  the  right 
on  a  movable  pivot  at  the  back  centre  to  reveal  the 
second  scene,  a  bit  of  seashore  (Act  II,  Scene  1  of  the 
original  text).  Illusion  in  the  Russian  theatre  is  not 
precluded  by  staring  exit  lights;  a  tiny  gleam  serves 
the  purposes  of  safety.  The  glow  of  a  beach  fire,  il- 
luminating the  faces  of  Sebastian  and  Antonio,  is 
sufficient,  therefore,  with  Shakespeare's  words  to  re- 
create the  night  and  the  sands  and  the  inky  waves  be- 
yond. At  the  right  again  for  the  corresponding  scene 
of  Viola's  rescue,  a  cave  seems  to  open  out  to  a  vista 

85 


The  Russian  Theatre 


of  dimly  moonlit  water.  All  the  while,  the  tapestries 
of  the  first  scene  are  undisturbed  in  this  shadowy  pic- 
ture, and  with  full  light  once  more  they  are  restored 
for  the  fourth  scene  at  the  Duke's  palace. 

A  secluded  corner  at  Olivia's  is  the  fifth  scene  in 
both  the  Studio  and  the  original  text,  a  study  in  the 
delicate  tracery  of  carved  lattice  work  and  mullioned 
windows.  The  costumes  are  in  like  mood:  lace  cap 
and  latticed  sleeves  and  bodice  of  red  velvet  for  Maria; 
white  ruff  under  olive  green  velvet  and  a  single  pearl 
on  the  forehead  for  Olivia;  black  velvet  robe  and  cap 
and  a  sweeping  purple  feather  for  Viola;  orange  cape 
cut  fantastically  for  Sir  Toby,  with  a  fat  orange 
feather  in  his  hat ;  and  black  doublet  edged  with  white 
and  offset  by  a  single  large  brooch  for  Malvolio.  An- 
other scene  at  the  Duke's  follows  at  the  right  (Act  II, 
Scene  4  of  the  original),  before  the  first  intermission. 

The  second  group  of  episodes  at  the  Studio  begins 
outside  the  entrance  to  Olivia's  home,  the  seventh  scene 
in  order  and  the  third  of  Act  I  of  the  original  text.  A 
single  heavy  door  with  the  upper  half  crossbarred,  a 
bench  and  a  lamp  post  fix  the  locale.  The  enveloping 
curtain,  swung  farther  to  the  left  than  before,  is  dimly 
seen  as  Maria,  candle  in  hand,  peers  through  the  door, 
chides  the  unsteady  knights,  Toby  and  Andrew,  and 
finally  admits  them.  The  logic  of  this  transposition 
of  the  text  is  evident  in  the  next  scene,  at  the  right, 
the  third  of  Act  II,  where  the  revelry  with  Feste's 
assistance  is  continued  in  Olivia's  cellar  until  Malvolio 
falls  down  the  steps  at  the  extreme  right  in  a  sawed-off 

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The  Studios  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 

night  dress  with  the  protest,  "  My  masters,  are  you 
mad?"  The  grotesque  humors  of  the  scene,  such  as 
the  wedging  of  Malvolio  in  an  open  barrel  and  driving 
him  off  upstairs,  tractor-fashion,  are  not  only  excus- 
able but  commendable  in  the  spontaneity  and  gusto 
with  which  they  are  introduced.  After  a  short  street 
scene,  comes  the  episode  in  Olivia's  garden,  for  which 
almost  the  entire  stage  is  used.  A  low  wall  at  the  left 
and  the  back,  with  robes  thrown  over  it  to  break  its 
strict  lines,  terminates  at  the  right  in  an  arched  pas- 
sageway into  the  house  with  columns  of  the  same 
carved  lattice  work  as  in  the  fifth  scene. 

The  second  intermission  is  followed  by  Malvolio's 
humiliation  before  Olivia  in  another  corner  of  the  gar- 
den. A  portion  of  the  same  wall  is  visible,  but  the 
entire  left  angle  of  the  stage  is  given  up  to  a  raised 
platform  with  a  covered  passageway  behind  it  in  which 
Malvolio  disports  himself  in  the  presence  of  his  as- 
tonished mistress.  In  no  scene,  however,  is  the  Stu- 
dio's method  better  unfolded  or  more  thoroughly  justi- 
fied than  in  the  setting  wherein  the  several  street  scenes 
are  played.  Nothing  but  the  dark  blue  curtains  clothe 
the  stage  except  for  a  single  window  frame  near  the 
centre  fixing  the  corner  of  Olivia's  home.  Curtains 
lead  the  winding  street  back  out  of  sight  at  the  right; 
curtains  carry  the  same  street  past  the  house  and  out 
into  the  foyer  at  the  left.  Here  are  played  the  ludi- 
crous preparations  for  the  duel;  the  fight  itself,  with 
the  unmilitant  combatants  struggling  to  avoid  each 
other  and  the  voices  of  Viola  and  Sir  Andrew  echoing 


The  Russian  Theatre 


distantly  from  the  two  ends  of  the  street  in  the  farthest 
premises  of  the  theatre;  the  intrusion  of  Sebastian  in 
the  place  of  Viola;  and  Olivia's  interruption  at  the  win- 
dow with  "Hold,  Toby;  on  thy  life,  I  charge  thee, 
hold !  "  Here,  too,  the  Studio  interpolates  an  eloquent 
bit  of  dumb  show  when,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
organ  strains  of  the  wedding  inside,  the  Duke  and  his 
retainers  pass  by,  ground  their  lanterns  and  listen  for 
a  moment  in  disappointed  revery.  Back  of  the  cur- 
tains, meanwhile,  the  entire  stage  has  been  set  richly 
but  simply  for  the  final  scene  of  the  reunion  of  brother 
and  sister. 

"  Twelfth  Night "  at  the  Studio  fulfills  its  Eliza- 
bethan character  not  only  by  the  simplicity  of  its  stag- 
ing, but  also  by  a  rare  combination  of  taste  and  refine- 
ment with  gusto  and  hearty  rowdyism.  Too  often  in 
the  past,  the  comedy  has  been  over-refined  by  blunting 
the  lusty  good  humors  of  Toby  and  his  crew;  or  if  those 
humors  have  been  unreined,  their  commonness  has 
spread  through  the  entire  production.  But  under  Stan- 
islavsky, the  two  moods,  equally  typical  of  Tudor  de- 
meanor, receive  their  just  emphasis  in  a  deft  blending 
which  reconstitutes  the  age  of  Shakespeare's  England. 

It  is  good,  too,  to  see  "  Twelfth  Night "  without  a 
Viola  whose  importance  is  overdrawn  to  make  an  ac- 
tor's holiday  for  a  jealous  star.  There  is  a  hint  of  pre- 
cocity in  Suhatcheva's  playing  both  the  roles  of  Viola 
and  Sebastian,  but  the  illusion  of  the  comedy  is  the 
gainer  thereby.  If  any  one  actor  in  the  unified  en- 
semble stands  out  above  the  rest,  it  is  Kolin  as  Mal- 

88 


The  Studios  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 

volio,  —  not  through  artificial  emphasis  on  the  role 
but  through  his  abundant  insight  into  the  heart  of  the 
character  and  his  astonishing  brilliance  in  conveying 
to  others  the  picture  he  has  conceived.  The  grotesque 
nature  of  this  conception  is  vividly  announced  in  the 
actor's  masterly  make-up  wherein  the  lines  all  seem  to 
work  toward  the  centre  of  his  face,  but  by  the  same 
device  the  actor  denotes  Malvolio's  tragic  self -occupa- 
tion. In  him  the  play's  two  rhythms  of  the  grotesque 
and  the  refined  meet  and  fuse,  and  I  know  of  no  actor 
in  our  time  who  has  understood  so  well  this  essential 
function  of  the  character. 

A  similarly  keen  appreciation  and  understanding  of 
another  bit  of  England  marks  the  earliest  production 
of  the  First  Studio,  a  dramatized  version  of  "  The 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth  "  of  Charles  Dickens.  In  the 
dancing  shadows  of  a  fireplace  at  the  right  before  the 
curtain,  Lazarieff,  impersonating  the  author,  reads  the 
quaint  introduction  to  the  tale.  As  the  light  of  the 
hearth  gradually  fades,  the  interior  of  the  little  cottage 
of  the  Peerybingles  is  disclosed  on  the  stage,  with  the 
wash  on  the  line,  the  cradle  by  the  fire  and  Dot  —  a 
very  demure,  diminutive  Dot  in  the  person  of  the  trim 
Durasova  —  waiting  for  her  John.  Hmara  makes  a 
great-hearted  elderly  boy  of  the  master,  halting  his 
repast  with  a  chunk  of  food  in  one  cheek  to  talk  to  his 
lady,  —  too  hearty  and  too  explosive  at  times  for  a 
Briton,  but  the  fault  is  forgivable  in  its  contagious 
geniality.  A  perfect  riot  of  a  toy  shop  is  the  second 
scene  in  Caleb  Plummer's  home,  and  the  third,  too, 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


from  a  slightly  different  angle.  The  fourth  scene,  or 
the  third  act,  as  the  Studio  presents  the  play,  returns 
to  the  hearthplace  of  the  Peerybingles  with  a  rush  of 
honest  joy  for  the  denouement.  Imperceptibly,  the 
music  of  the  dance  blends  into  the  chirrup  of  the 
cricket,  and  as  the  lights  grow  dimmer  the  author  in 
his  chair  in  the  firelit  shadows  before  the  curtain  brings 
the  tale  to  a  close. 

Other  plays,  other  methods.  Russian  farce,  Russian 
satire,  Russian  melodrama  and  Russian  tragedy  are 
grouped  in  a  single  bill  of  short  plays  by  Tchehoff: 
"  The  Proposal  ",  "  Concerning  the  Harm  of  Tobacco", 
"The  Witch"  and  "The  Swan  Song."  Herman 
Heijermans  '  "  The  Loss  of  '  The  Hope  '  ",  played  in 
America  by  Ellen  Terry  as  "  The  Good  Hope  ",  is  as 
Dutch  as  a  dike  in  the  Studio  production,  with  a  third 
act  played  with  such  stark  simplicity  and  sincerity  that 
it  recalls  Synge's  "  Riders  to  the  Sea."  And  Henning 
Berger's  "  The  Deluge  ",  although  the  least  satisfac- 
tory item  in  the  repertory,  has  numerous  American  in- 
sights. It  is  remarkable  how  these  Russians  know 
more  about  every  other  country  on  earth  than  all  the 
others  put  together  know  about  them ! 

Sometimes  the  proportion  of  Studio  players  on  the 
stage  of  the  Art  Theatre  itself  is  so  great  that  it  seems 
as  if  the  day  of  the  younger  generation  had  come  al- 
ready. "  The  Blue  Bird  "  is  now  almost  altogether  in 
Studio  keeping.  And  the  Pushkin  programme,  con- 
sisting of  the  very  brief  and  very  intense  episode,  "  The 
Festival  in  the  Time  of  the  Plague  ",  and  the  longer 

90 


The  Studios  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 

version  of  the  Don  Juan  legend,  "  The  Stone  Guest ", 
is  likewise  almost  altogether  the  product  of  the  Studios, 
with  the  exception  of  Katchaloff  as  Juan  and  German- 
ova  as  Dona  Anna  in  the  latter  tragedy.  It  seems 
more  fitting,  therefore,  to  consider  it  in  connection  with 
the  other  work  of  the  Studios,  especially  since  the  out- 
standing moment  of  the  programme  is  Baklanova's 
brilliant  performance  of  Laura  in  "  The  Stone  Guest." 

The  shorter  play  is  adapted  from  a  longer  English 
original,  Wilson's  "  The  City  of  the  Plague  ",  to  which 
Pushkin  has  added  the  songs  and  the  toasts  in  his  own 
inimitable  poetry.  Its  scene  is  in  London  in  the  days 
of  the  Black  Death,  and  with  its  terrifying  picture  of 
a  group  of  young  people  trying  to  drown  in  revelry 
their  horror  of  an  overhanging  doom,  it  has  a  porten- 
tous significance  in  Russia  to-day,  although  the  Art 
Theatre's  revival  of  the  play  dates  back  to  the  season 
of  1914-1915. 

"  The  Stone  Guest "  was  written  in  the  same  year, 
1830,  the  thirty-first  of  the  greatest  Russian  poet's 
brief  thirty-eight.  It  is  faithfully  Spanish  in  atmos- 
phere and  episodic  in  construction,  —  a  series  of  brief 
dramatic  narratives  with  Don  Juan  as  connecting  link, 
each  episode  cutting  clean  to  the  heart  of  a  given  psy- 
chological situation  and  laying  bare  by  a  few  swift 
strokes,  after  the  manner  later  used  by  Browning,  the 
hearts  and  the  motives  of  the  leading  characters. 
Striking  and  eloquent  work  was  to  be  expected  of 
Katchaloff  and  Germanova,  and  they  fulfill  expecta- 
tions with  a  fine  romantic  curve  held  in  check  by  the 


The  Russian  Theatre 


dignity  and  the  reserve  and  the  poise  which  they  have 
learned  in  their  association  with  the  realistic  roles 
which  make  up  most  of  the  Art  Theatre's  repertory. 
To  see  their  mature  standard  attained  at  one  stroke  by 
the  youthful  Baklanova  in  the  role  of  Laura  brings 
the  thrill  that  the  theatre  will  always  hold  for  those  who 
know  its  power  to  reveal  new  and  unsuspected  talent 
and  genius  but  who  never  cease  to  wonder  when  it  ap- 
pears. Starting  with  the  difficult  scene  among  her  ad- 
mirers and  her  song  with  the  sigh  for  a  smouldering 
love  as  its  final  note,  this  young  girl  draws  a  picture  of 
a  woman  who  has  known  life  through  and  through. 
And  she  draws  it  with  such  economy  of  strokes,  such 
deep  and  trenchant  strokes,  such  passionate  power, 
such  conviction  and  such  poignancy  that  she  has  al- 
ready earned  her  right  to  graduation  from  the  Studio 
to  the  parent  stage.  For  both  of  the  Pushkin  plays, 
scenery  of  intensely  expressive  character  has  been  de- 
signed by  Alexander  Benois,  known  to  us  by  his  set- 
tings for  the  Diagileff  Ballet. 

Even  more  interesting  from  a  human  standpoint 
than  these  finished  and  mature  players  of  the  First 
Studio  are  the  enthusiastic  children  of  the  Second  Stu- 
dio. Their  theatre  is  very  young  and  they  have  made 
only  a  single  public  production,  "  The  Green  Ring  ", 
although  they  had  another  ready  for  disclosure  when  I 
left  Moscow.  The  Second  Studio  is  more  apparently 
a  school  than  the  First,  and  its  ranks  are  full  of  eager 
youngsters  from  twelve  to  sixteen  years  of  age.  Only 
two  or  three  performances  are  given  each  week,  for 

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The  Studios  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 

many  of  the  children  are  students  in  other  schools  as 
well.  The  burden  on  each  is  further  relieved  and 
rivalry  is  introduced  into  their  work  by  casting  sev- 
eral players  for  every  role  and  alternating  their  per- 
formances. Artistically,  however,  there  has  been  no 
attempt  to  ease  their  tasks,  for  their  plays  are  delib- 
erately chosen  in  order  to  crowd  as  many  characters 
as  possible  on  the  stage  in  a  given  scene.  Stanislav- 
sky is  determined  that  his  pupils  shall  learn  thoroughly 
the  difficult  art  of  ensemble  and  he  pushes  them  on  the 
stage  to  sink  or  swim ! 

Out  of  the  Studios  already  has  come  a  rich  harvest 
of  ability  of  the  first  rank.  Kolin  and  Baklanova  from 
the  First  Studio  loom  as  the  leaders  of  the  coming  gen- 
eration. And  so  does  Tchehoff,  whose  illness  kept 
him  from  my  sight,  —  nephew  of  the  playwright,  and 
a  gaunt,  brooding  soul,  weighed  down  by  Russia's  sor- 
rows but  a  supreme  artist  through  it  all.  Somehow  it 
is  difficult  to  see  how  Baklanova's  trenchant  feeling  and 
colorful  methods  will  find  full  outlet  in  the  restrained 
realism  of  the  Art  Theatre.  But  it  may  be  that  such 
as  she  will  instil  into  it  new  life  when  it  has  run  its 
course  in  its  present  mood.  Others  who  are  destined 
to  lead  are  the  antic  Smuishlyaieff ,  who  plays  Sir  An- 
drew with  mincing  subtlety  in  "Twelfth  Night"; 
Bolyeslavsky,  the  turbulent  Sir  Toby  of  the  same  pro- 
duction; Ghiatsintova,  a  demure  but  sprightly  Maria 
to  their  more  downright  clowns;  Solovyova  and  Su- 
hatcheva  and  Durasova.  For  the  most  part,  the  Sec- 
ond Studio  does  not  yet  indicate  its  hidden  promise, 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


although  a  slender  wisp  of  a  girl,  Tarasova,  still  well 
under  twenty,  displays  a  keen  sense  of  the  theatre  and 
has  won  the  unhesitating  commendation  of  Stanislav- 
sky. 

In  the  hands  of  such  as  these,  the  future  of  the  Mos- 
cow Art  Theatre  and  the  Russian  stage  is  secure.  A 
new  generation  stands  ready  at  the  door,  trained  to 
know  their  opportunities  and  their  responsibilities  in 
the  days  when  the  Russian  theatre  shall  complete  its 
patient  vigil  over  the  past  as  a  light  and  a  vision  in 
troubled  times,  and  turn  once  more  to  the  creation  of 
new  visions  and  new  beauty. 


94 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  RUSSIAN  BALLET  IN  ITS  OWN  HOME 

OF  all  the  Russian  arts,  the  Ballet  has  had  its  hopes 
lifted  the  highest  and  dashed  the  lowest  by  the  Revolu- 
tion. More  than  any  of  the  other  arts,  more  even  than 
literature,  it  was  bound  by  the  conventions  of  the  old 
regime.  More  than  any  of  the  others,  it  rejoiced  over 
its  new  freedom  and  for  a  few  dizzy  months  made 
plans  and  dreamed  dreams  such  as  only  an  enthusiastic 
Russian  can  dream.  More  than  any  of  the  others,  it 
drew  its  life  blood  from  the  support  of  the  State  — 
from  the  Tsar  of  old,  from  the  free  Russian  Republic 
now.  And  so  more  than  any  of  the  others  it  suffered 
when  the  new  State,  hard  pressed  by  enemies  within 
and  without,  found  itself  unable  to  devote  to  the  Ballet 
the  equivalent  of  the  vast  subsidies  of  former  years. 

The  Russian  Ballet  was  inextricably  woven  into  the 
fabric  of  the  autocracy,  a  bright  and  cheering  thread 
in  that  sombre  texture  of  fear  and  gloom  and  deceit  and 
oppression.  Born  of  the  free  and  boundless  Russian 
spirit,  it  had  been  corralled  and  hedged  in  just  as  the 
other  manifestations  of  the  eager  Russian  imagination 
had  been  smothered  and  repressed.  To  the  reaction- 
ary curse  of  his  ancient  court,  the  Tsar  had  bound  it  by 
financial  ties  which  were  at  the  same  time  both  gener- 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


ous  and  miserly.  No  matter  how  extravagant  were  its 
demands  on  the  imperial  purse  strings,  these  demands 
were  always  met.  Two  of  the  most  imposing  play- 
houses in  the  world  were  devoted  to  it  and  to  the  Rus- 
sian Opera  as  their  exclusive  homes,  —  the  Marinsky 
in  Petrograd  and  the  Great  Imperial  Theatre,  now  the 
Great  State  Theatre,  in  Moscow.  Hundreds  of  boys 
and  girls  were  trained  in  the  Imperial  Ballet  Schools 
for  ten  to  fifteen  years  with  the  clear  understanding 
that  only  a  handful  of  them  would  ever  justify  the  time 
and  the  expense  lavished  on  their  education.  But 
while  the  Tsar  had  nurtured  the  Ballet  with  his  finan- 
cial support,  he  had  stifled  its  normal  growth  spiritually 
by  an  artistic  conservatism  which  seems  to  have  been 
inevitably  interwoven  with  political  reaction  and  which 
dulled  and  stunted  Russian  art  wherever  it  exercised 
control.  In  the  mind  of  the  court,  the  Ballet  was  a 
thing  of  show,  a  Metropolitan  horseshoe,  a  source  of 
vulgar  pride,  a  part  of  the  trappings  of  royalty  whereby 
the  sins  of  royalty  masked  some  of  their  most  hideous 
aspects.  And  yet,  in  the  face  of  this  incubus,  the  Rus- 
sian spirit  was  not  to  be  denied.  For  generations,  the 
genius  of  Russia  had  welcomed  even  this  circumscribed 
channel.  The  composers  of  Russia  had  contrived  their 
harmonies  for  it.  The  artists  of  Russia  had  painted 
its  scenery.  The  ballerinas  of  Russia  had  refused 
the  offers  of  the  world  in  order  to  cling  to  its  shelter 
and  to  their  beloved  Russia. 

The  Revolution  meant  an  end  to  all  these  restric- 
tions !     The  Ballet  was  to  be  free  in  free  Russia !     All 

96 


THE  GREAT  STATE  THEATRE,   MOSCOW 


Photographs  by  the  Author 
THE  MARINSKT  THEATRE,   PETROGRAD 

THE  TWO  HOMES  OF  THE  RUSSIAN  BALLET  AND  OPERA 


^^^ummmm 

Photograph  by  Goraky,  BaDetmuter,  M 

(From  left  to  right) 

ANDERSON,     KANDAOUROVA     AND     GORSHKOVA,    OF     THE     BALLET, 

MOSCOW 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

of  the  splendid  flowers  of  its  imagination  developed 
beyond  the  frontiers  of  Russia  were  to  be  brought  back 
home  and  incorporated  into  its  famished  body  to  fertil- 
ize it  and  bring  forth  new  and  undreamed  beauty. 
Stravinsky,  known  only  through  some  of  the  indepen- 
dent orchestras,  was  to  be  heard  for  the  first  time  in 
the  home  of  the  Ballet.  Bakst  and  his  madly  colored 
scenery  were  to  be  brought  back  from  Paris  and  Lon- 
don and  America.  The  short,  intensely  dramatic 
ballets  which  made  up  the  repertory  of  Sergei  Diag- 
ileff  in  his  wanderings  over  the  earth,  were  to  wave 
their  passionate  wand  for  the  first  time  over  Moscow 
and  Petrograd. 

Even  yet  I  find  it  difficult  to  conceive  of  Moscow  and 
Petrograd  still  awaiting  their  first  sight  and  hearing 
of  Bakst  and  Stravinsky,  of  "  Petrushka  "  and  "  The 
Fire  Bird  "  and  "  The  Crowning  of  Spring  "  and  "  The 
Afternoon  of  a  Faun  "  and  "  Tamar."  Diagileff  bor- 
rowed his  dancers  by  imperial  permission  from  the 
Great  State  Theatre  in  Moscow  and  the  Marinsky  in 
Petrograd,  but  he  gathered  his  scenery  and  his  music 
from  Russians  living  in  artistic  exile  in  Paris  and  Ge- 
neva and  then  revealed  his  garnered  secrets  only  to  the 
rest  of  Europe  and  afterwards  to  the  Americas.  The 
Revolution  in  March,  1917,  promised  a  welcome  home 
for  all  this  banished  beauty,  but  before  the  theatres, 
reborn  and  eager  in  their  freedom,  could  complete  their 
plans  for  expanding  their  repertories,  the  economic 
demoralization  of  Russia  put  the  cost  of  production 
of  new  plays  and  ballets  beyond  even  State  subsidies. 

07 


The  Russian  Theatre 


I  suppose  it  was  the  discovery  that  none  of  these 
vivid  and  stimulating  forces  of  the  Russian  Ballet  had 
ever  been  tolerated  in  Russia  itself  which  impressed 
on  me  most  acutely  the  spiritual  hunger  from  which 
the  Ballet  had  suffered  under  the  autocracy.  My  as- 
tonishment grew  as  I  came  in  contact  with  the  artists 
who  had  remained  in  Russia  and  had  seized  the  few 
opportunities  for  expression  which  had  been  grudg- 
ingly granted  them.  Here  was  Korovin,  the  equal  of 
Bakst  as  a  master  of  color  and  a  surer  if  less  fantastic 
creator  of  eloquent  background.  To  what  use  had  his 
genius  and  his  visions  been  put  ?  Once  in  a  while,  the 
settings  for  one  of  the  old  conventional  ballets  would 
wear  out.  And  Korovin  was  permitted  to  design  their 
successors,  —  brilliant  and  stirring  moments  all  but  lost 
on  the  antiquated  and  uninspired  score  and  plot.  Here 
were  Prokofieff  and  Kuroff  and  other  composers  of  a 
new  generation  struggling  against  a  tradition  that  per- 
mitted scarcely  anything  more  modern  than  Glazunoff's 
"  Raymonda  "  in  the  repertory.  Here  was  Mordkin, 
as  virile  and  impetuous  as  he  was  when  he  helped  Pav- 
lova unfold  for  us  first  the  witchery  of  the  Ballet,  his 
dramatic  fire  and  his  creative  energy  bound  down  to 
the  precise  and  lifeless  roles  of  the  outworn  classics. 
Here  were  a  dozen  dancers,  young  and  ambitious  and 
restless  in  a  new  time,  who  had  never  ventured  beyond 
their  native  stages  and  who  had  not  felt  the  lure  of  the 
newer  impulses  but  who  were  ready  and  straining  to 
devote  their  ripening  powers  to  a  rarer  beauty.  And 
last  of  all,  here  was  a  corps  de  ballet,  an  ensemble,  such 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

as  none  but  Russians  had  seen,  lifting  even  the  anti- 
quated repertory  to  an  undue  eminence  by  the  mastery 
of  their  technique  and  the  thrill  of  their  impassioned 
spirit.  If  Russia  has  still  to  see  and  hear  Bakst  and 
Stravinsky,  the  rest  of  the  world  has  still  to  experience 
the  excitement  stirred  by  the  ensemble  of  the  Russian 
Ballet  in  its  own  home ! 

The  home  of  the  Ballet,  as  I  have  said,  is  not  singu- 
lar. Moscow  and  Petrograd  vied  with  each  other  be- 
fore the  war  with  a  rivalry  far  keener  than  that  be- 
tween the  Boston  Opera  at  its  height  and  the  Metro- 
politan. Rather,  the  competition  and  the  municipal 
patriotism  it  aroused  resembled  the  struggles  between 
our  baseball  teams.  Even  then,  however,  the  ancient 
capital  must  have  outshone  the  new  one  on  the  Neva. 
Its  school  produced  a  more  astonishing  ensemble.  The 
dancers  of  the  first  rank  and  promise  at  the  Great  Im- 
perial Theatre  outnumbered  those  at  the  Marinsky.  It 
is  true,  Karsavina  usually  danced  at  the  latter,  but 
Moscow  had  Mordkin,  and  the  next  eight  or  ten  baller- 
inas to  be  named  after  Karsavina  were  all  daughters  of 
the  Kremlin.  By  the  time  I  reached  Russia,  war  and 
revolution  had  only  emphasized  the  leadership  of  Mos- 
cow. Karsavina  alone  made  the  Ballet  at  the  Marin- 
sky notable.  Then,  too,  life  in  Moscow  was  more  en- 
durable, more  conducive  to  the  light-hearted  spirit  of 
the  Ballet,  while  the  Great  State  Theatre  was  always 
a  more  imposing  and  fitting  home  for  the  art  of  the 
dance. 

Moscow's  Theatre  Place,  dominated  by  this  solid 

99 


The  Russian  Theatre 


pile,  is  the  second  centre  of  the  city,  ranking  next  after 
the  great  Red  Square  outside  the  Kremlin.  In  one  or 
the  other  of  these  concourses,  all  of  the  historic  gath- 
erings of  the  city  have  centered,  —  all  of  the  revolts, 
the  celebrations,  the  demonstrations.  The  windows  of 
Hotel  Metropole  overlook  its  gardens  and  its  trolley 
wires.  The  age-mottled  yellow  stone  walls  of  the 
Small  State  Theatre  flank  its  eastern  side  and  the  The- 
atre Nezlobina  its  western  edge.  Peering  down  from 
the  north,  the  huge  Ionic  columns  of  the  Great  State 
Theatre  overshadow  everything  else.  Scarred  here 
and  there  by  the  bullets  and  the  shells  of  Bolsheviki  and 
Junkers,  they  stand  unharmed  like  a  bronze  statue 
peppered  with  bird  shot.  The  doors  opening  under- 
neath them  lead  through  the  vast  corridors  and  stair- 
cases dear  to  the  heart  of  the  architects  of  the  first  half 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  while  the  shallow  horseshoe 
balconies  and  galleries  rising  six  or  seven  to  the  roof 
betray  the  same  ancestry.  It  certainly  is  not  distinc- 
tively Russian.  Nor  is  there  anything  of  the  "  new 
theatre"  in  it.  Realism  would  be  impossible  with  its 
stage  as  big  as  all  outdoors  and  its  auditorium  seating 
almost  five  thousand.  But  it  is  instinct  with  the  spirit 
of  the  theatre,  it  is  a  theatrical  theatre;  and  inasmuch 
as  the  Ballet  is  perhaps  the  most  theatrical  of  all  the 
arts  of  the  theatre,  the  Moscow  home  of  the  Russian 
Ballet  is  as  it  should  be. 

The  first  evidence  I  had  that  all  was  not  going  as 
well  with  the  Ballet  as  the  Revolution  had  promised, 
came  the  week  the  theatre  reopened  after  the  November 

100 


Tlie  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

upheaval.  Sobinoff,  Russia's  leading  tenor  with  a  voice 
sweeter  and  better  trained  than  Caruso's  and  almost 
as  powerful,  was  the  kommissar  or  regisseur,  elected 
by  the  artists  of  the  theatre  after  the  manner  of  all 
delegated  authority  in  democratic  Russia.  But  Sob- 
inoff was  singing  in  Petrograd  just  then.  I  was  una- 
ware of  his  absence  and  I  couldn't  understand  why  my 
letter  to  him  had  gone  unanswered.  Everywhere  else, 
the  doors  had  opened  for  me  most  graciously.  It  may 
have  been  a  case  of  stubborn  American  honor,  but  I 
was  determined  not  to  pay  to  see  the  Ballet  after  all 
the  other  theatres  had  made  me  their  winter's  guest. 
Twenty  minutes  before  the  curtain  no  reply  had  ar- 
rived, and  I  suddenly  grabbed  a  young  Russian  friend 
by  the  arm. 

"  Are  you  game  to  talk  Russian  for  me  ?  "  I  asked 
him.  "If  you  are,  we'll  storm  the  place  and  be  Bol- 
sheviki  ourselves."  He  assented,  for  he  hadn't  been 
educated  in  England  for  nothing,  though  he  hadn't 
quite  the  assurance  of  an  American  collegian.  The 
gruff  old  watchdog  at  the  stage  door  was  our  first  ogre. 
He  stood  his  ground  until  Bulgakoff,  one  of  the  artists' 
staff  who  had  managed  Gertrude  Hoffman's  Russo- 
American  tournce  a  dozen  years  ago,  came  through  the 
passageway  and  with  a  word  cleared  the  path  for  us  to 
an  inner  office.  Thence,  our  decisive  and  vigorous 
methods  sufficed  to  carry  us  by  way  of  the  stage  to 
Sobinoff's  box,  a  canopied  retreat  with  great  gilt  chairs 
reserved  for  court  dignitaries  in  an  elder  time. 

A  week  passed  and  a  new  ballet  was  announced. 
101 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Sobinoff  was  still  in  Petrograd.  Every  one  was  in 
command  and  no  one  was  in  command.  My  efforts  to 
establish  diplomatic  relations  with  the  Ballet  were 
fruitless.  But  the  watchdog  at  the  stage  door  had  not 
seen  us  ejected  at  the  tip  of  a  Russian  boot  on  our  first 
visit,  and  so  our  ruse  succeeded  a  second  time  and  a 
third.  Such  a  footing,  though,  was  too  precarious  for 
comfort.  And  so  I  accepted  the  cordial  offer  of  as- 
sistance from  Boris  Maitoff,  a  devoted  connoisseur  of 
the  Ballet  whom  I  had  met  in  Sobinoff's  box.  One  of 
his  ancestors  had  come  to  Russia  from  England  a 
century  ago,  and  he  himself  had  spent  a  year  in  Texas 
buying  cotton  and  winning  a  charming  American  wife. 
In  all  my  winter's  research,  no  one  was  more  tireless 
in  helping  me  to  meet  and  talk  with  the  leaders  of  the 
Russian  theatre  than  Maitoff. 

Through  Maitoff  I  finally  arranged  with  Elena  Con- 
stantina,  Sobinoff's  secretary,  to  see  the  holiday  rep- 
ertory of  the  Ballet,  and  all  in  regular  form  with  a  very 
official  looking  pass.  One  afternoon  the  brother  of 
my  original  fellow-raider  and  I  had  penetrated  as  far 
as  the  stage  on  the  pass,  but  the  door  into  the  box  was 
still  locked.  We  roamed  around  among  the  scenery 
and  the  gathering  chiffon  of  the  corps  and  then  out  in 
front  of  the  curtain.  There  was  our  box,  just  a  good 
half-leap  from  the  stage.  We  were  early  and  there 
was  hardly  any  one  in  the  auditorium.  I  overcame 
my  companion's  scruples  and  we  clambered  up  to  our 
seats.  But  we  hadn't  counted  on  the  watchdog  of  this 
particular  portion  of  the  theatre,  and  when  we  emerged 

102 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

from  the  box  to  buy  a  programme  he  was  up  the  stairs 
at  a  leap  and  demanding  our  pass.  Law  and  order 
might  vanish  everywhere  else  but  this  particular  sentry 
of  the  old  regime  was  faithful!  Unfortunately,  the 
pass  had  been  made  out  by  mistake  for  one  instead  of 
for  myself  and  my  interpreter.  One  of  us  had  to 
leave!  Of  course,  neither  of  us  did,  but  it  took  an 
intricate  circuit  through  winding  corridors,  a  deal  of 
waiting  and  the  loss  of  the  overture  to  "  The  Sleeping 
Beauty  "  before  our  shveytsar  nemesis  was  satisfied  by 
the  inadvertent  nod  of  a  friend  of  SobinofFs.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  winter,  though,  Sobinoff  gave  up  in  de- 
spair under  the  heckling  of  the  Soviet  and  I  had  to 
seek  new  alliances.  After  numerous  negotiations, 
which  were  not  worth  the  effort  in  money  but  which 
had  become  a  matter  of  stubborn  pride,  I  finally  made 
arrangements  with  that  august  body  of  the  proletariat 
itself  whereby  I  was  to  have  an  entire  red  silk  box  and 
all  its  gilt  chairs  to  myself  whenever  I  wished  it !  But 
the  peace  had  been  signed ;  Moscow  was  becoming  day 
by  day  a  less  pleasant  and  secure  habitation ;  an  endless 
series  of  political  wrangling  without  much  purpose  or 
much  result  loomed  up  before  me,  and  the  following 
week  I  packed  my  photographs  and  my  memories  and 
started  on  the  long  trail  home. 

Of  the  ballets  visible  in  Moscow  under  the  Revolu- 
tion, those  of  Tchaikovsky  were  easily  preeminent.  In 
them  none  of  the  passion  and  the  sensuousness  and  the 
dramatic  fire  of  "  Tamar  "  and  "  Sheherazade  "  and 
"Petrushka"  of  the  Diagileff  repertory.  "The 

103 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Sleeping  Beauty  "  and  "  Swan  Lake  "  are  simply  the 
conservative  classic  ballet,  but  they  are  the  height  of 
that  ballet,  built  up  of  prettiness,  naive  fairy  narra- 
tive and  generous  infusions  of  what  some  one  has  called 
"  absolute  dancing  ",  dancing  of  the  classic  steps  for 
their  own  sake,  devoid  of  dramatic  significance.  I  was 
distinctly  surprised  to  find  that  the  Russian  public  still 
considers  this  the  ideal  aspect  of  the  Ballet.  You 
might  think  yourself  in  La  Scala  in  Milan  watching  a 
breathless  audience  follow  a  singer  to  her  high  note  and 
then  go  mad  with  applause,  for  that  is  what  happens 
with  the  great  technicians  of  the  dance  in  Moscow. 

Splendidly  and  terribly  imaginative  characterization 
in  the  Ballet  such  as  that  of  the  weird  Nizhinsky  is  not 
appreciated  at  anywhere  near  its  true  value.  Nizhinsky 
is  one  among  many  in  Russia.  He  has  had  to  go 
abroad  to  earn  the  reward  for  his  supreme  imaginative 
gifts.  And  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  there  are  sev- 
eral of  the  younger  generation  who  will  have  to  do  the 
same  if  they  wish  to  be  considered  anything  more  than 
excellent  actors  obtruding  their  inferior  gifts  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  superior  art  of  the  toe  dance.  Either  the 
intense  choreographic  dramas  produced  by  Diagileff 
are  a  source  of  envy,  jealousy  or  suspicion,  or  else  the 
connoisseurs  of  the  Ballet  in  Moscow  would  deliber- 
ately prefer  the  classic  to  the  dramatic  ballet  if  they  had 
to  choose  between  them.  Of  this  I  am  sure :  the  dra- 
matic ballet  will  never  descend  to  mere  pantomime  in 
Russia.  The  insistent  and  persistent  demand  for  a 
display  of  all  the  intricate  technique  of  the  toe  dance 

104 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

will  take  care  of  that  danger.  Wherever  the  Ballet 
goes  in  its  experiments  under  the  new  freedom,  it  will 
carry  along  with  it  the  technique  of  its  classic  era. 

The  supremacy  of  the  two  ballets  by  Tchaikovsky 
lies  largely  in  their  rich  and  unified  scores.  None  of 
the  others  in  the  repertory  I  saw  could  compare  with 
either  in  this  respect.  Some  of  them,  like  the  ancient 
"  Corsar  "  and  "  Don  Quixote  ",  are  such  unconscion- 
able crazy  quilts  of  odds  and  ends  from  all  the  com- 
posers since  the  beginning  of  time,  that  my  attention 
was  diverted  from  the  action  to  the  anxiety  as  to  what 
old  favorite  from  the  family  tune  book  would  jump  at 
me  next  from  the  conductor's  baton.  Surely  these 
creaking  gaffers  are  not  the  goal  which  the  marvellous 
structure  of  the  Russian  Ballet  has  been  erected  to  in- 
terpret. Neither  is  "  Coppelia "  worthy  of  all  the 
effort  bestowed  upon  it.  "  Bayaderka  ",  the  Hindu 
ballet  by  Mincous,  is  on  a  higher  plane,  with  a  vivid 
and  dramatic  though  conventional  story,  and  a  score 
that  is  alert  if  not  greatly  interesting.  What  gives 
"  Bayaderka "  distinction  are  the  costumes  and  the 
scenery  by  Korovin,  considerably  superior  to  his  work 
for  "  Corsar  "  by  which  he  has  tried  in  vain  to  galvan- 
ize Adam's  timeworn  score  into  life.  Of  all  the  ballets 
at  the  Great  State  Theatre  in  Moscow,  though,  per- 
haps the  most  characteristically  Russian  is  the  fantas- 
tic dramatization  of  the  Russian  folk-tale,  "  Konyok- 
Gorbunok",  or  "  The  Hump-backed  Hobbyhorse." 
The  whimsies  of  its  naive  plot,  of  Puni's  music,  and  of 
Korovin's  jolly  peasant  costumes  and  rustic  scenes 


The  Riissian  Theatre 


combine  to  make  it  a  happy  example  of  the  Ballet  in 
its  middle  mood. 

Moscow  and  Petrograd  are  relentless  judges  of  the 
novice  in  the  Ballet.  Skill  in  technique  is  the  first  con- 
sideration. Personal  charm  and  beauty  are  appre- 
ciated, but  they  are  strictly  subordinated  to  the  funda- 
mentals of  performance.  Thus  it  is  that  the  elder 
dancers  hold  their  roles  and  their  places  in  the  public 
affection  securely  against  the  youth  and  the  eagerness  of 
the  new  generation.  To  win  the  title  of  ballerina  and 
the  right  to  dance  a  leading  role,  one  must  toil  patiently 
for  years  in  the  lesser  parts  or  even  in  the  corps.  To 
be  graduated  from  the  school  into  a  minor  role,  skip- 
ping service  in  the  corps,  is  considered  the  highest  trib- 
ute to  the  young  dancer.  In  Petrograd,  therefore, 
Karsavina  has  reigned  supreme,  not  only  because  of 
this  loyalty  to  mature  skill  but  also  because  few  of  her 
younger  consorts  either  there  or  in  Moscow  are  danger- 
ous rivals.  Fokina  was  absent  in  Copenhagen  and 
Karaly  ill  in  Finland,  and  so  none  of  the  first  baller- 
inas of  the  generation  of  Pavlova  and  Karsavina  was 
present  to  dispute  the  latter's  prestige.  In  Moscow, 
however,  faithfulness  to  the  experienced  artist  seemed 
to  me  to  bestow  credit  out  of  all  proportion  to  deserts. 
The  Ballet  public  acknowledged  the  leadership  of  Gel- 
tser.  There  is  no  denying  her  technique  or  her  bound- 
less spirits,  but  she  left  my  feelings  cold  and  unkindled. 
Balashova,  too,  although  many  years  Geltser's  junior, 
profited  in  popular  esteem  and  choice  of  roles  at  the 
expense  of  several  of  the  younger  generation  who  dis- 

106 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

played  far  greater  genius  but  who  were  still  working 
out  their  novitiate. 

Naturally,  even  in  Russia,  the  future  lies  in  the  lap 
of  this  younger  generation.  For  me,  however,  the 
present  is  also  in  their  keeping.  It  is  they  who  reward 
the  pilgrim  to  the  home  of  the  Ballet  with  the  thrill  and 
the  fire  which  is  the  secret  of  the  Ballet's  greatness. 
It  is  they  who  were  missing  from  Diagileff's  ranks,  — 
they  and  the  astonishing  corps  of  Moscow  whose  ab- 
sence prevented  the  Russian  Ballet  in  America  from 
fulfilling  all  its  prospects  and  its  promises.  It  is  they 
who  stand  straining  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  day, 
waiting  to  merge  the  traditions  of  the  past  with  the 
dreams  of  the  future.  Anderson,  Fyodorova,  Krieger 
and  Kandaourova  interest  me  most.  All  of  them 
are  firmly  grounded  in  technique.  Each  of  them  ex- 
presses herself  through  a  personality  that  is  rich  and 
distinctive,  the  personality  of  a  genuine  artist. 

Anderson  is  marked  for  the  most  brilliant  future 
of  them  all  in  her  native  Russia,  —  Elizabeth  Julia 
Anderson,  to  give  her  full  name  for  the  benefit  of 
curious  America  and  in  order  to  propitiate  a  guilty  sense 
of  brusqueness  at  using  merely  the  surname,  Russian- 
fashion.  I  had  seen  her  as  one  of  the  Pearls  who 
dance  with  Ocean  under  the  sea  in  "  The  Hump-backed 
Hobbyhorse  ",  in  which  Kandaourova  has  the  leading 
role.  Here  is  a  remarkably  proficient  young  lady,  I 
thought,  but  I  was  unprepared  for  the  display  of  vir- 
tuosity and  genius  she  revealed  when  she  danced  the 
title  part  in  Tchaikovsky's  "  The  Sleeping  Beauty." 

107 


The  Russian  Theatre 


This  light-haired,  trim,  sensitive  girl  has  probably 
the  keenest  esthetic  of  any  one  in  the  Ballet  in  Russia 
to-day.  Certainly  she  has  the  finest  sense  of  ballet 
form  since  Pavlova.  In  addition  to  her  technical 
gifts  and  her  perfect  control  of  them,  rivalling  that  of 
the  greatest  dancer  of  our  generation,  Anderson  has 
a  warmth  of  personality  which  Pavlova  with  her  aus- 
terity has  never  been  able  to  bestow  on  her  work.  She 
can  never  be  the  Greek  goddess  as  Pavlova  can,  but  she 
has  possibilities  in  more  human  parts  which  her  prede- 
cessor can  not  touch. 

Of  Scandinavian  extraction  on  her  paternal  side, 
Anderson  has  a  distinctly  light  and  northern  air  about 
her.  It  was  her  grandfather  who  emigrated  from 
Denmark  and  gave  her  an  un-Russian  name  and  per- 
haps her  shimmering  blonde  beauty.  Her  mother, 
however,  was  a  member  of  a  prominent  Moscow  mer- 
chant's family  and  to  her  she  probably  owes  her  thor- 
oughly Russian  spirit  and  imagination.  In  Moscow 
she  was  born  in  1890  and  at  the  age  of  nine  she  en- 
tered the  Imperial  Ballet  School.  From  the  very  first, 
she  appeared  on  the  stage  of  the  Great  Theatre  in  the 
parts  of  elves,  gnomes  and  angels.  At  the  age  of  six- 
teen she  was  graduated  from  the  school  with  the  first 
degree,  which  permitted  her  to  forego  apprenticeship 
in  the  corps  de  ballet  and  to  enter  immediately  into  the 
roles  of  the  second  leading  dancer.  In  that  rank  in 
1911  and  1912  she  danced  in  London  with  Karsavina 
at  the  Coliseum  and  with  Geltser  at  the  Alhambra. 
One  of  the  roles  she  played  in  those  foreign  seasons 

108 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

was  the  antic  cat  in  Tchaikovsky's  "  The  Sleeping 
Beauty."  Aside  from  those  brief  excursions,  she  has 
danced  only  in  Moscow,  where  she  attained  her  first 
leading  role,  Aurora  in  "  The  Sleeping  Beauty  ",  in 
the  season  of  1916-1917,  and  her  next,  Odetta  in 
Tchaikovsky's  "  Swan  Lake  ",  while  I  was  in  Moscow. 
Her  forte,  she  thinks,  is  the  classic  ballet,  but  I  am 
sure  that  her  mastery  of  the  classic  technique,  like  that 
of  Pavlova,  will  give  force  and  assurance  and  poise 
to  the  dramatic  roles  she  is  destined  to  play  in  the  newer 
ballets. 

Two  things  above  all  please  me  in  an  art  like  the 
Ballet.  One  of  them  is  the  perfect  control  of  power 
such  as  that  of  Pavlova  and  Anderson.  The  other  is 
that  superabundance  of  power  and  nervous  energy 
which  defies  all  control  and  literally  overflows  its  con- 
taining body  in  every  direction.  Of  course,  there  must 
be  technical  skill  to  absorb  the  bulk  of  this  power  or 
else  the  exhibition  descends  to  mere  animal  romping. 
But  it  is  not  unpleasing,  especially  in  extreme  youth,  to 
see  an  artist  using  twice  the  force  needed  to  accomplish 
a  given  task.  I  know  then  that  the  vital  energy  is  there 
and  that  time  and  experience  may  bring  it  under  con- 
trol. 

It  is  this,  I  think,  which  interests  me  most  in  Krieger, 
one  of  the  latest  additions  to  the  roster  of  leading 
ballerinas.  I  know  of  no  one  in  the  entire  course  of 
the  Russian  Ballet  who  has  her  electrical  swiftness  of 
movement  and  lightness  of  touch.  Moscow  audiences 
censure  her  for  the  prodigality  with  which  she  expends 

109 


The  Russian  Theatre 


her  energy,  but  they  like  her  for  her  superabundance 
of  spirit, — zhizn  or  life,  the  Russians  call  it.  She  is 
Russian  to  the  core ;  she  has  danced  nowhere  except  in 
Moscow  and  she  doesn't  wish  to  dance  anywhere  else 
until  she  has  grounded  herself  more  firmly  in  her  pro- 
fession. 

Krieger  comes  naturally  by  her  art,  for  her  family 
has  long  been  connected  with  the  Russian  theatre  and 
her  father  is  now  one  of  the  leading  players  at  the  Thea- 
tre Korsha  in  Moscow.  She  was  born  in  1893,  en- 
tered the  Imperial  Ballet  School  in  1904  and  was  grad- 
uated in  1912.  Of  a  somwhat  later  period  in  her  in- 
struction than  Anderson,  she  has  been  less  influenced 
by  the  ambition  to  rival  Pavlova  and  therefore  she  is 
proceeding  on  her  course  of  development  quite  inde- 
pendently. Pavlova  to  her  is  a  name  and  a  reputation 
rather  than  an  experience,  for  the  greatest  dancer  had 
left  Russia  several  years  before  Krieger  completed  her 
period  of  instruction.  Her  first  leading  role  was  in 
"The  Hump-backed  Hobbyhorse"  in  1915  and  her 
second  in  "  Don  Quixote."  Almost  her  entire  experi- 
ence, therefore,  has  dated  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war. 

American  audiences,  if  they  have  the  opportunity,  will 
welcome  the  radiant  Kandaourova  for  her  surpassing 
beauty  and  the  dark,  lithe  impassioned  Fyodorova  for 
her  power  as  an  actress.  Two  dancers  could  hardly 
differ  more,  one  from  another.  Kandaourova  appeals 
placidly  but  pleasantly  to  the  senses,  Fyodorova  hotly 
to  the  emotions.  Both  of  them  have  that  perfect  con- 
no 


Saharoff,  Moscow 

MIHAIL  MORDKIN  AND  MARGARITA  FROMAN  IN  THE  BALLET, 
"AZIADE,"  STAGED  BY  MORDKIN 


Saharoff,  Moscow 

ZHUKOFF  AND  MLLE.  BEYZEN 

REIGNING    STARS    OF    THE    BALLET    AT    THE    GREAT 
STATE   THEATRE,   MOSCOW 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

trol  of  the  body  which  is  a  prerequisite  for  the  first 
rank  in  the  Ballet.  To  this,  Kandaourova  adds  a 
quick  sense  of  gracefulness  and  a  fairy  prettiness, 
while  Fyodorova  in  addition  is  probably  the  ablest  de- 
lineator of  character  the  Russian  Ballet  has  produced. 

Of  the  others,  Margarita  Froman  has  already  been 
to  this  country  with  Diagileff  and  she  is  now  the 
dancing  partner  of  Mihail  Mordkin  in  his  produc- 
tions independent  of  the  State  Theatre.  Reyzen  has 
an  incisive  dark  beauty,  and  Balashova  an  aristocratic 
face  and  great  vitality. 

Of  the  men,  Mordkin  still  stands  alone.  You  have 
only  to  see  him  dance  the  Bacchanale  at  the  Theatre 
of  the  Soviet  of  Workmen's  Deputies  in  Moscow, 
where  he  has  complete  control  of  all  Ballet  productions 
since  his  disagreement  with  the  Great  State  Theatre,  to 
realize  what  made  that  moment  of  dance  so  exciting 
when  he  and  Pavlova  first  gave  it  to  America  nearly  a 
decade  ago.  He  is  still  the  same  Mordkin,  tireless, 
ambitious,  impetuous  in  his  eager  good-will,  his  physi- 
cal powers  undimmed,  his  imagination  deepened  and 
broadened. 

Mihail  Mihailitch  —  Michael  the  son  of  Michael  — 
as  his  friends  know  him,  is  almost  as  much  a  tradition 
among  us  as  Pavlova  is  in  her  native  Russia.  He  was 
a  pupil  of  the  Imperial  Ballet  School  of  Moscow  and 
served  his  apprenticeship  there  and  in  Petrograd.  It 
is  nearly  a  decade  now  since  he  first  came  to  us  with 
Pavlova  in  the  freshness  of  his  early  power,  danced 
with  her  all  over  America,  and  then  in  1912  after  two 

in 


The  Russian  Theatre 


seasons  with  us,  suddenly  withdrew  into  the  mysterious 
land  from  which  he  sprang.  Through  a  like  interval 
Pavlova  has  been  absent  from  Russia,  a  wanderer  on 
the  earth,  dividing  her  time  between  London  and  Ma- 
drid, between  New  York  and  Buenos  Aires,  and  all  the 
stops  en  route.  I  had  to  reassure  her  fellow-citizens, 
shut  off  hopelessly  from  the  world  by  years  of  war  and 
revolution,  that  Pavlova  still  lives  and  dreams  and 
works  and  thrills  those  who  crowd  into  her  charmed 
circle.  And  now,  ever  since  my  return  to  America, 
I  find  that  I  must  recreate  the  shadowy  Mordkin  and 
bear  witness  that  he,  too,  still  lives  and  dreams  and 
works  and  thrills  great  audiences  who  turn  to  him  for 
a  moment  of  encouragement  under  the  Terror. 

It  wasn't  long  after  the  Bolshevik  Revolution  in 
November,  1917,  that  I  picked  up  the  broken  thread  of 
the  past  and  once  more  held  a  Mordkin  programme  in 
my  hand  as  I  sat  in  the  Theatre  of  the  Soviet  of  Work- 
men's Deputies  in  Moscow.  "  Aziade "  was  the 
ballet,  a  tale  of  the  Arabian  Nights  arranged  and  pro- 
duced by  Mordkin  himself,  with  music  by  Giutel,  a 
contemporary  composer  of  promise  who  conducted  his 
own  score,  and  with  scenery  by  Goloff,  a  Moscow  ar- 
tist of  to-day  with  a  keen  sense  for  vivid  color.  But 
these  details  didn't  matter.  Fate  and  faith  hung  on  the 
entrance  of  the  Sheik  Usein  played  by  Mordkin. 
Could  he  still  draw  my  muscles  tense  just  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  magnetic  presence  on  the  scene?  And 
so  when  he  doubled  the  thrill  even  against  the  odds  of 
such  vaulting  expectation  and  followed  it  by  an  amaz- 

112 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

ing  and  unsuspected  command  of  dramatic  technique 
working  intimately  with  the  technique  of  the  dance, 
then  I  knew  that  here  at  least  was  an  idol  unbroken  in 
iconoclastic  Russia.  Here  was  the  mature  Mordkin, 
on  toward  forty,  of  whom  our  glimpse  a  decade  ago 
was  not  the  fulfillment  but  only  the  prophecy. 

For  several  years  after  his  return  to  Russia,  Mordkin 
did  not  apply  too  vigorously  the  energetic  precepts  he 
had  learned  in  America.  He  went  to  London  in  1914, 
but,  back  again  in  Moscow  and  Petrograd,  he  danced 
the  roles  assigned  him  in  the  conventional  ballets  which 
stifled  the  sedate  repertories  of  the  Imperial  Theatre. 
Still,  all  the  time  the  leaven  was  working.  All  the 
time  Mordkin,  dancer,  longed  to  be  Mordkin,  postan- 
ovka,  producer.  The  first  Revolution  brought  him  his 
opportunity  in  the  summer  of  1917.  By  a  more  or  less 
peaceful  and  orderly  form  of  expropriation,  the  Soviet 
of  Workmen's  Deputies  in  Moscow  took  over  the  lease 
of  Zimin's  Opera  House,  a  private  institution  second 
in  importance  only  to  the  Great  State  Theatre.  Here 
for  years  Zimin  had  produced  Opera  and  Ballet  in  ri- 
valry with  the  Imperial  Theatre,  welcoming  to  his  stage 
new  works  more  readily  than  the  conservative  institu- 
tion, much  in  the  manner  of  Oscar  Hammerstein  dur- 
ing his  tenancy  of  the  Manhattan  Opera  House  in  New 
York.  The  Soviet  assumed  all  of  Zimin's  obligations 
to  his  singers  and  his  staff  and  in  addition  induced 
Fyodor  Kommissarzhevsky,  director  of  one  of  Mos- 
cow's experimental  theatres,  to  produce  new  operas 
and  Mihail  Mordkin  to  take  charge  of  the  Ballet. 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Things  had  reached  that  pass  when  I  arrived  in  Mos- 
cow. Mordkin  still  retained  his  connection  with  the 
Great  State  Theatre  of  Moscow,  although  he  no  longer 
danced  there.  In  the  spring  of  1918,  even  that  thread 
to  the  past  was  broken,  for  his  independent  methods 
shocked  the  staid  traditions  of  the  elder  institution  and 
he  was  put  outside  its  ranks.  To  his  own  ballet  school 
and  his  productions  at  the  Theatre  of  the  Soviet  he  de- 
voted most  of  his  time.  The  Bolshevik  Opera,  we 
called  it,  for  the  Soviet  insisted  on  running  the  front 
part  of  the  house.  Although  the  seats  were  numbered, 
no  one  could  find  them,  and  you  fought  for  your  place 
as  you  would  in  the  bleachers  at  the  Polo  Grounds. 
The  only  salvation  lay  in  the  fact  that  no  one  was  ad- 
mitted during  an  act  and  your  squatter  sovereignty 
held  good  that  long,  at  least. 

Back  stage,  however,  the  Soviet  had  sense  enough  to 
let  their  appointed  directors  hold  sway.  And  the  con- 
trast in  order  and  efficiency  and  ensemble  suggests  that 
Russia  might  be  a  more  whole  and  happy  land  if  she 
turned  everything  over  to  her  artists !  It  was  here  in 
this  atmosphere  of  order  and  freedom  that  Mordkin, 
dancer,  grew  to  be  Mordkin,  producer.  Here  he 
brought  to  life  his  passionate,  vivid  tale  of  Araby, 
"  Aziade  ",  an  intense  tragic  night  under  tented  can- 
opies, with  the  triangular  design  so  common  in  Russian 
art  pushed  to  a  nerve-shattering  point  in  the  decora- 
tions, and  with  costumes  by  contrast  made  up  of  sin- 
uous, curving  figures.  In  it  he  plays  the  sheik  who 
woos  a  beautiful  captive  girl,  Aziade,  only  to  fall  by  her 

114 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

hand  after  she  has  repulsed  him  and  then  feigned  affec- 
tion in  order  to  kill  him.  Margarita  Froman,  Mord- 
kin's  present  partner,  is  the  girl.  She  is  not  another 
Pavlova,  but  she  has  grace  and  personal  charm  and  is 
an  excellent  foil  for  Mordkin's  aggressive  manner. 

Somehow  there  is  less  to  be  said  of  the  other  men 
despite  their  ability.  Zhukoff  at  the  Great  Theatre 
stands  head  and  shoulders  above  the  others  in  the  on- 
coming generation  and  plays  the  roles  formerly  as- 
signed to  Mordkin  with  a  nice  combination  of  grace 
and  vigor.  The  classic  technique  delegates  to  the  man 
the  function  of  balance  wheel,  the  pivot  round  which 
the  more  spectacular  work  of  his  partner  is  woven,  and 
no  one  fulfills  this  duty  with  more  assurance  and  less 
obtrusiveness  than  Zhukoff,  although  some  of  the  bal- 
lerinas prefer  to  dance  with  the  slender  Novikoff  or  the 
stalwart  Svoboda  and  some  in  the  audience  prefer  to 
see  them.  Novikoff's  form  is  beyond  criticism  but 
he  hardly  gives  the  impression  of  power  in  reserve  that 
distinguishes  such  dancers  as  Mordkin  and  Bolm  and 
Zhukoff. 

No  roster  of  the  home  guards  of  the  Ballet  would  be 
complete  without  the  antic  Ryabtseff.  To  him  fall 
invariably  all  the  clownish  roles.  He  is  kicked  and 
cuffed  around  like  the  fools  of  Shakespeare,  and  yet 
on  occasion  he  displays  his  mastery  of  the  serious 
technique  which  is  at  the  base  of  all  the  ballet  training. 
No  one  in  Moscow,  not  even  Stanislavsky  of  the  Art 
Theatre,  is  so  difficult  to  find  or  to  follow.  In  addition 
to  hi.s  exacting  duties  at  the  Great  State  Theatre?,.  Ryat** 

"5 


The  Russian  Theatre 


tseff  finds  time  to  be  the  regisseur  of  the  Theatre  Nez- 
lobina,  a  dramatic  house;  the  business  manager  of 
Youzhny's  Variety  Theatre,  and  the  director  of  his  own 
ballet  school. 

No  record  is  complete,  either,  without  a  glimpse  of  the 
sensitive  artist  who  has  contributed  the  most  imagina- 
tive scenic  settings  to  the  Ballet  in  Moscow  and  Petro- 
grad,  —  Constantin  Alexeievitch  Korovin.  Born  in 
Moscow  in  November,  1861,  he  was  graduated  from 
the  Academy  of  Painting  there  at  the  age  of  twenty. 
Later,  at  twenty-three,  he  studied  and  exhibited  in 
Paris  and  at  twenty-six  in  London.  He  is  one  of  the 
few  Russian  artists  who  know  America  from  experi- 
ence, for  at  the  age  of  thirty-two  he  was  connected  with 
the  Russian  exhibit  at  the  World's  Columbian  Exposi- 
tion at  Chicago  in  1893.  On  his  return  to  Europe, 
he  had  an  atelier  in  Paris  where  Americans  frequently 
congregated.  As  a  young  man  he  designed  the  dec- 
orations and  costumes  for  a  period  of  eight  years  at 
the  private  theatre  and  opera  of  Mamontoff  in  Mos- 
cow. For  many  years  now,  he  has  been  the  leading  ar- 
tist in  the  scenic  studios  of  the  state-endowed  Opera 
and  Ballet. 

Despite  all  his  travels  and  his  mastery  of  his  art, 
Korovin  is  of  an  extremely  diffident  and  retiring  na- 
ture. It  was  only  the  day  before  I  left  Moscow  that 
I  penetrated  with  some  friends  to  his  studio  off  the 
Myasnitskaya.  The  anxious  years  of  war  and  revolu- 
tion had  told  seriously  on  the  artist,  and  I  found  him 
obsessed  with  a  kind  of  nameless  dread,  although  no 

116 


The  Russian  Ballet  in  Its  Own  Home 

conceivable  political  or  social  change  could  put  him  in 
jeopardy.  In  preparation  for  a  flight  which  he  feared 
as  much  as  he  did  the  ordeal  of  remaining  in  Russia, 
he  had  sold  off  most  of  his  precious  canvases.  Those 
that  remained  he  permitted  me  to  photograph  to  my 
heart's  content,  and  in  addition  he  thrust  into  my  hands 
many  rare  prints  of  his  productions.  "  You  may  keep 
them  until  I  see  you  again,"  he  said  with  character- 
istic Russian  faith  and  simplicity. 

In  the  presence  of  old  friends,  however,  he  lost  some 
of  his  nervous  anxiety  and  entered  into  a  discussion 
with  boyish  zeal.  Mid-afternoon,  Shaliapin,  Russia's 
and,  I  think,  the  world's  greatest  opera  singer,  dropped 
in  for  a  chat.  I  had  heard  him  in  "  Boris  Godunoff  " 
in  Petrograd  at  the  Narodny  Dom  the  month  before, 
and  I  had  yielded  more  unquestioningly  to  the  actor 
than  to  the  barytone,  for  Shaliapin  would  probably 
be  the  greatest  living  actor  if  he  lost  his  singing  voice 
to-morrow..  In  the  intimacy  of  the  informal  Russian 
living  room,  where  we  sat  for  hours  around  the  lunch 
table  after  Mme.  Korovin  had  cleared  away  a  frugal 
meal,  we  listened  to  Fyodor  Ivanovitch  —  for  that  is 
the  name  by  which  all  Russia  knows  him,  down  to  the 
poorest  peasant  —  and  his  stories.  Every  inch  of  his 
six  feet  four  was  instinctive  with  drama  and  with  in- 
domitable vitality.  The  future  of  the  Russian  theatre 
is,  indeed,  dark,  but  with  men  of  such  fineness  and 
strength  as  these  to  tide  it  over  to  better  days,  it  is  not 
hopeless. 

The  dreams  of  the  Ballet  have  been  sadly  shattered 

117 


The  Russian  Theatre 


by  the  Revolution,  but  they  have  not  been  destroyed. 
Freed  from  an  oppressive  conservatism,  the  Ballet  finds 
its  hands  tied  anew  by  the  economic  demoralization  of 
the  country.  Subsidies  have  not  ceased,  but  they  have 
ceased  to  be  sufficient  for  the  Ballet  to  make  any  prog- 
ress. For  a  while,  the  proletarian  hatred  of  all  the 
fruitage  of  the  autocracy  threatened  to  engulf  the 
theatre  and  the  opera  and  the  ballet.  But  wiser 
counsels  prevailed.  The  leaders  of  the  Bolsheviki 
have  just  as  much  respect  as  any  one  else  for  these 
proud  possessions  of  the  Russian  people.  They  have 
their  own  crude  and  abrupt  way  of  expressing  that  re- 
spect, and  endless  friction  has  resulted  from  the  pugna- 
cious disturbance  of  honored  customs,  but  the  salaries 
of  the  artists  have  gone  on  and  the  doors  have  been  kept 
open.  In  such  times  as  these,  however,  the  meagre 
funds  set  aside  for  upkeep  do  not  suffice  for  new  pro- 
ductions. "  Petrushka  "  was  to  have  been  seen  for  the 
first  time  in  Russia  at  the  Great  State  Theatre  in  Mos- 
cow the  winter  I  was  there,  and  that  was  only  one  of 
the  hopes  lifted  and  then  dashed  by  the  course  of  the 
Revolution.  The  Russian  Ballet,  like  all  the  other 
Russian  arts,  may  count  itself  fortunate  if  it  can  hold 
its  ranks  together  and  weather  the  storm  as  an  institu- 
tion intact,  if  it  can  preserve  some  semblance  of  its 
school  and  hand  on  to  the  artists  of  less  distressing  days 
the  beauty  of  its  spirit. 


CHAPTER   VIII 
THE  DEEPER  ROOTS  OF  THE  RUSSIAN  THEATRE 

ONE  of  the  best  of  all  reasons  why  the  Russian 
theatre  has  survived  political  and  even  social  revolution 
is  that  its  roots  strike  deeply  and  firmly  into  the  past. 
Its  birth,  along  with  the  other  Russian  arts,  out  of  the 
womb  of  a  people's  sorrow  helps  explain  why  it  persists 
supreme  among  modern  theatres  in  spite  of  the  chaos 
and  the  anxiety  and  the  bitterness  of  class  struggle. 
To  its  spiritual  consolation  and  its  honest  vision,  the 
nation  turns  in  the  days  of  its  deeper  sorrow.  And 
yet,  rich  as  it  has  been  in  performing  this  service,  it 
probably  would  not  have  borne  the  shock  of  the  Terror 
if  it  had  not  been  grounded  for  generations  in  the 
minds  and  affections  of  all  Russians. 

For  us  to  think  of  the  Russian  theatre  in  terms  of 
generations  requires  something  of  a  mental  wrench. 
The  Moscow  Art  Theatre  we  know  by  rumor  and  the 
Russian  Ballet  by  its  pleasant  dalliance  on  our  shores. 
But  the  former  was  created  out  of  Stanislavsky's 
dream  in  our  own  time,  and  the  latter  startled  the 
world  only  from  the  moment  Isadora  Duncan  rekin- 
dled its  flame.  The  Russian  theatre  seems  to  us  like 
the  newest  theatre  in  the  world.  Instead,  its  geneal- 
ogy is  from  Pushkin  and  Griboyedoff,  from  Gogol  and 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Ostrovsky  as  playwrights  and  from  Motchaloff,  tra- 
gedian, and  Shchepkin,  comedian,  as  players.  For  a 
hundred  years  it  has  been  the  secure  refuge  of  Russian 
genius  from  the  oppression  of  reaction  and  autocracy. 

The  continuation  to-day  of  this  elder  tradition  of 
the  Russian  theatre,  the  flower  of  these  roots,  is  the 
Small  State  Theatre  in  Moscow,  home  of  the  Russian 
classic  drama.  Small  it  is  only  by  comparison  with 
its  partner  in  governmental  subsidies,  the  Great  State 
Theatre,  guardian  of  Opera  and  the  Ballet,  for  it  seats 
at  least  a  thousand  people  and  its  stage  is  larger  than 
its  auditorium.  Its  age-yellowed  exterior  stands  unob- 
trusive guard  over  the  east  side  of  the  Theatre  Place, 
a  stone's  throw  from  the  imposing  Ionic  portico  of  the 
Great  Theatre.  Inside,  balustrades  and  corridors  of 
masonry  lead  to  an  interior  of  red  and  gold  and  plush 
and  draperies.  Tradition  sits  down  beside  you  in  your 
seat.  Flavor  of  men  and  manners  of  other  years 
crosses  the  footlights  without  a  shock,  for  you  yourself 
in  the  brief  interval  since  you  left  the  anxious  turmoil 
of  to-day's  out-of-doors  have  been  led  back  into  the 
mood  of  other  years.  I  wish  we  had  a  single  theatre 
like  this  for  our  Shakespeare  and  for  the  rest  of  our 
less  hardy  but  still  picturesque  classic  drama.  The 
proponents  of  experiment  and  the  "  new  theatre " 
would  not  be  interested  in  it,  but  we  should  then  know, 
as  Russia  knows,  the  tenacious  virility  of  the  past  and 
the  leavening  power  of  tradition. 

My  host  in  Moscow,  Andrei  Yegorovitch  Weber, 
was  one  of  those  who  believed  passionately  in  these 

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The  Deeper  Roots  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

elder  values,  and  so,  though  my  own  inclination  carried 
me  oftener  to  the  middle-aged  Art  Theatre,  already 
settling  into  its  own  tradition,  and  to  the  youthful 
theatres  of  artistic  revolt,  I  was  not  permitted  for  long 
to  forget  the  quiet  and  unobtrusive  dignity  of  the  Small 
State  Theatre.  Vladimir  Tardoff,  too,  a  newspaper 
friend  with  tastes  similar  to  my  own,  warned  me,  in 
my  quest  for  the  new  and  the  strange,  not  to  neglect  the 
home  of  the  classic  drama. 

"  There  you  will  find  Ostrovsky  handed  down  in 
unbroken  succession  from  the  mid-nineteenth  century. 
With  Gogol  and  Griboyedoff,  a  still  elder  tradition  is 
preserved.  And  there,  too,  you  will  see  how  the  Rus- 
sian has  welcomed  into  his  repertory  the  best  of  the 
drama,  of  western  Europe,  from  Moliere  and  Shake- 
speare down  to  Ibsen.  In  the  political  terminology 
of  to-day,  the  Small  State  Theatre  stands  on  the  ex- 
treme right  in  matters  of  art,  preserving  and  guarding, 
modestly  but  earnestly,  the  humanism  of  the  past. 
And  over  its  affairs,  one  of  the  finest  spirits  in  all  Rus- 
sian art  to-day  presides,  Prince  Alexander  Ivanovitch 
Sumbatoff." 

Accordingly,  with  Tardoff's  card,  I  sought  the  prince 
at  home  and  in  the  playhouse.  The  derangement  of 
the  theatre's  plans  by  the  Bolshevik  Revolution  made 
the  prince  a  very  busy  man  and  hard  to  find.  It  was 
only  after  a  most  cordial  correspondence  in  French 
that  our  trails  met  one  evening  between  the  acts  in  his 
own  private  greenroom  which  opened  off  his  loge.  Al- 
ready he  had  arranged  with  the  doorkeepers  that  I 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


should  come  at  will  and  sit  with  my  interpreter  in  the 
front  row  of  chairs  placed  in  a  slight  depression  between 
the  first  row  of  the  parterre  and  the  edge  of  the  apron 
and  denoted  the  "  orchestra  ",  although  no  musical  di- 
version ever  breaks  the  continuity  of  a  Russian  dra- 
matic performance.  The  seats  were  not  the  best  in  the 
house,  but  they  were  the  only  ones  readily  and  inva- 
riably at  his  disposal,  for  the  entire  auditorium  with  the 
exception  of  this  orchestra  was  often  reserved  by  sub- 
scription. And  so  almost  his  first  words  after  our 
meeting  were  an  apology  for  the  arrangements  he  had 
made  for  me. 

"  It  doesn't  matter !  "  I  said  in  all  sincerity.  "  I  am 
at  home  anywhere  in  the  theatre." 

Instantly,  his  all-enclosing  hand  reached  across  the 
table  and  gripped  mine  in  earnest  sympathy,  for  he, 
too,  has  been  at  home  "  anywhere  in  the  theatre  "  ever 
since  as  a  boy  in  the  First  Gymnasium  of  Tiflis  he  was 
drawn  to  the  stage. 

Alexander  Ivanovitch  is  a  prince  of  the  Caucasus. 
He  was  born  September  17,  1857,  into  one  of  the  oldest 
families  of  Georgia  on  the  estate  of  his  mother  in  the 
Government  of  Tula,  south  of  Moscow.  He  entered 
the  law  school  of  the  University  of  Petrograd  in  1877, 
but  immediately  on  his  graduation  in  1881  he  turned 
to  the  stage  and  joined  the  company  of  Brenko's  Push- 
kin Theatre,  in  Moscow.  F.  A.  Korsh,  whose  red 
brick  playhouse  is  still  one  of  the  landmarks  of  Mos- 
cow's dramatic  life,  was  just  completing  his  institu- 
tion at  that  time,  and  on  the  closing  of  the  Pushkin 

122 


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The  Deeper  Roots  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

Theatre,  Sumbatoff  joined  the  ranks  of  Korsh. 
The  same  year  he  was  invited  without  trial  by  the 
regisseur  Potiehin  to  the  Small  Imperial  Theatre  of 
Moscow,  and  there  on  September  12,  1882,  he  made  his 
first  appearance  as  Tchatsky  in  the  finest  example  of 
classic  Russian  comedy,  Griboyedoff's  "  Gore  ot  Uma." 
And  there  he  has  played  and  perfected  his  art  as  come- 
dian and  tragedian  for  thirty-seven  years,  except  when 
the  entire  company  left  Moscow  for  one  of  its  infre- 
quent guest  tours  to  Petrograd  or  to  the  provincial 
cities  or  even  so  far  afield  as  Belgrade,  Serbia,  in  1900. 
As  player  and  playwright,  Prince  Sumbatoff  uses 
the  stage  name  Youzhin,  but  he  is  known  and  loved 
throughout  Russia  by  his  given  name,  Alexander  Ivan- 
ovitch.  He  began  to  write  for  the  theatre  while  he  was 
still  a  student  in  the  University,  and  his  first  play,  "  The 
Lightning  Rod  ",  was  produced  with  success  in  1878 
by  the  Moscow  Artistic  Circle.  His  next,  "  Rustling 
Leaves",  was  first  played  October  14,  1881,  at  the 
Small  Imperial  Theatre  in  Moscow  and  the  following 
season  at  the  Alexandrinsky  in  Petrograd.  "  Sergei 
Satiloff  "  followed  in  1883,  but  although  it  is  published 
in  his  works  the  censor  denied  it  performance.  Other 
plays  followed  in  rapid  succession,  presented  both  in 
Moscow  and  Petrograd :  "  The  Husband  of  a  Celeb- 
rity ",  1884;  "  The  Arkazoffs  ",  1886;  "  The  Chains  ", 
1888;  "Tsar  Ivan  IV",  in  verse,  1890;  and  "The 
Commune  of  Irin  ",  1901.  He  has  continued  his  com- 
position in  later  years  but  with  less  frequency  and  I 
have  no  complete  list.  His  "  Night  Birds  "  was  in  the 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


repertory  of  the  Small  State  Theatre  during  the  winter 
of  1917-1918.  A  record  kept  until  1901  showed  a 
total  of  over  six  thousand  performances  of  his  various 
plays  in  the  theatres  throughout  Russia  and  that  sum 
must  have  been  more  than  doubled  by  to-day.  Several 
of  his  plays  have  been  translated  into  Polish,  Czech, 
Serbian,  German  and  French.  As  a  playwright,  You- 
zhin  has  followed  in  the  realistic  tradition  of  Ostrov- 
sky,  in  whose  comedies  he  has  so  often  appeared  at  the 
Small  State  Theatre.  The  background  of  their  action 
is  sometimes  the  life  of  provincial  actors,  sometimes 
that  of  the  impoverished  nobility,  and  sometimes  that 
of  the  modern  Russian  merchant. 

I  asked  Alexander  Ivanovitch  one  afternoon  in  his 
modest  apartment,  enriched  with  rare  rugs  and  hang- 
ings from  the  Caucasus  and  beyond,  what  was  his 
favorite  role  in  the  hundreds  he  had  played,  and  before 
I  could  stop  his  eager  catalogue  he  had  named  a  dozen 
out  of  Shakespeare  and  Schiller  and  Hugo.  I  know 
he  takes  great  delight  in  Shylock  which  I  saw  him 
play  twice  in  a  finely  flavored  production  of  "  The 
Merchant  of  Venice"  staged  in  the  conventional  man- 
ner. His  Jew  is  one  of  great  dignity  and  self-com- 
mand, the  embodiment  of  the  hatred  and  vengeance  of 
an  oppressed  race.  Outward  good  will  and  inward 
revenge  gleam  alternately  from  his  eyes  when  he  agrees 
to  the  bond.  His  eyes  are  eloquent,  too,  after  Jessica's 
flight,  —  set  and  glazed  as  he  looks  toward  the  sky  with 
something  of  the  wounded  patriarch  about  him.  His 
finest  moments,  though,  come  in  the  fourth  act,  as  they 

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The  Deeper  Roots  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

should.  I  have  never  seen  Shylock  face  his  expected 
triumph  more  proudly.  He  stands  like  a  pillar,  arms 
folded,  while  the  doge  outlines  the  case.  His  knife  he 
removes  from  the  sheath  with  a  jerk,  his  eyes  glitter  as 
he  sharpens  it,  he  tests  it  with  a  hair  from  his  beard, 
and  then  he  utters  a  word  of  lip  prayer  before  he  ad- 
dresses the  court.  He  is  stunned  at  first  by  the  verdict, 
but  turns  with  quivering  arms  for  his  appeal  to  the  doge, 
falling  forward  prostrate  at  the  end.  His  departure  is 
in  silence,  head  bowed,  —  a  broken  man  and  a  truly 
tragic  figure  who  has  appealed  to  the  emotions  through 
the  intellect  rather  than  through  the  emotions  direct. 

Another  role  that  gives  him  joy  is,  rather  strangely, 
that  of  Bolingbroke  in  Scribe's  "  Le  Verre  d'Eau." 
The  play  is  artifice  and  pasteboard  to  the  last  line,  but 
like  all  Scribe,  it  is  exultingly  of  the  theatre  theatrical, 
and  that  quality,  I  suppose,  commends  it  to  Youzhin's 
affection,  for  there  is  in  him  a  strain  of  the  old-time 
actor  who  loves  the  theatre  for  its  own  sake,  with  all 
its  strut  and  fret,  regardless  of  its  contact  with  life. 

As  a  true  artist,  Youzhin  likes  to  match  himself 
against  others,  and  so  at  alternate  performances  of  "The 
Merchant ",  Ossip  Andreievitch  Pravdin  is  the  Shylock, 
making  him  the  personification  of  individual  hatred 
rather  than  of  racial  vengeance  as  that  of  Youzhin. 
Pravdin's  service  at  the  Small  State  Theatre  antedates 
even  that  of  Youzhin,  for  the  fortieth  anniversary  of 
that  service  was  celebrated  while  I  was  in  Moscow. 
This  sharp-eyed,  gruff-voiced  but  kindly  old  actor  and 
artist  made  his  debut  in  the  theatre  at  Helsingfors, 

125 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Finland,  in  1869  at  the  age  of  twenty.  After  that,  he 
played  comic  old  men  in  Tiflis,  Kieff  and  various  cities 
until  the  great  Shumsky  discovered  him  and  brought 
him  to  Moscow  to  appear  on  private  stages.  On 
Shumsky 's  death  in  1878,  Pravdin  followed  him  at  the 
Small  State  Theatre,  where  he  has  played  and  taught 
in  the  theatre  school  ever  since. 

There  are  many  other  fine  figures  in  the  company  at 
the  Small  Theatre,  bridging  several  generations  of 
Russian  dramatic  genius.  Yermolova,  grande  dame 
of  the  Russian  stage,  is  accounted  its  leading  actress, 
though  she  seldom  plays  any  more.  Sadovskaya,  eld- 
est scion  of  a  family  which  compares  with  the  Booths 
and  the  Drews  and  the  Barrymores  in  its  service  in  the 
Russian  theatre,  still  preserves  a  keen  sense  of  the  droll 
and  the  comic  and  counts  those  who  love  her  from  play- 
goers of  her  own  advanced  age  down  to  the  children. 
Lyeshkovskaya,  though  a  younger  actress,  is  yet  of 
Youzhin's  era.  Aidaroff  is  equally  able  as  actor  and 
producer.  Yablotchkina  and  Lyenin  —  no  relative  of 
the  Bolshevik  premier  —  are  in  their  prime.  Sadov- 
sky  III,  son  of  Sadovskaya,  and  Maximoff  are  perhaps 
the  most  promising  of  the  young  men,  while  the 
theatre's  ablest  actresses  of  the  younger  generation  are 
Shchepkina,  heiress  of  the  traditions  of  another  great 
acting  family,  and  Gzovskaya. 

Only  one  new  production  has  been  made  at  the  Small 
State  Theatre  since  the  Revolution,  a  double  bill  in- 
cluding Oscar  Wilde's  "  Salome  "  and  "  A  Florentine 
Tragedy  "  —  the  former,  by  the  way,  wholly  missing 

126 


The  Deeper  Roots  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

the  passionate  import  of  the  drama  while  the  latter 
sought  out  accurately  and  conveyed  vividly  the  almost 
Greek  simplicity  of  its  sombre  story.  But,  like  the 
Art  Theatre  and  all  the  other  Russian  playhouses, 
the  Small  Theatre  had  only  to  delve  into  its  rich  reper- 
tory to  find  old  plays  that  are  always  new.  Ready  to 
the  reviving  hands  of  its  directors  were  all  the  varied 
dramatic  works  of  that  peculiar  possession  of  its  storied 
stage,  Alexander  Nikolaievitch  Ostrovsky,  —  history, 
satire  and  fancy.  Equally  ready  were  the  plays  of  Tol- 
stoy, while  from  western  literatures  came  trooping 
from  the  theatre's  storehouse  the  plays  of  Shakespeare, 
Moliere  and  Scribe.  In  addition  to  the  Shakespeare 
and  the  Wilde  which  I  have  recorded,  I  saw  during  the 
winter  of  1917-1918  Ostrovsky's  "Wolves  and 
Sheep",  "Truth  Is  Good  but  Luck  Is  Better"  and 
"  Vassilisa  Melientieva  ";  Lyoff  Tolstoy's  "  The  Fruits 
of  Enlightenment " ;  and  Scribe's  "Lc  Verre  d'Eau." 
Other  engagements  prevented  me  from  seeing  three  of 
Ostrovsky's  masterpieces,  "  The  Thunderstorm ", 
"  Frenzied  Finance  "  and  "  Voevoda  "  and  Moliere's 
"  The  School  for  Husbands  ",  which  were  in  the  sea- 
son's repertory. 

But  chief  of  them  all,  chief,  I  am  inclined  to  believe, 
among  the  entire  range  of  Russian  classic  drama,  was 
that  fine  and  sensitive  flower  of  Russian  culture, 
Griboyedoff's  "Gore  ot  Uma."  If  I  had  seen  nothing 
on  Youzhin's  stage  but  the  four  acts  of  its  tender  but 
searching  insight  into  life,  I  would  have  known  the  se- 
cret of  the  deeper  roots  of  the  Russian  theatre.  The 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


play's  title  defies  adequate  translation  into  English. 
"Ill  Luck  from  Sense"  it  is,  literally,  but  that  will 
never  do.  "  The  Woes  of  Wisdom  "  someone  has 
called  it,  with  resultant  moving  picture  connotations. 
The  French  are  more  successful,  with  "  Mai  de  Trop 
d' Esprit."  For  myself,  I  prefer  a  paraphrase  rather 
than  a  translation,  and  I  like  to  call  it  "  The  Sorrows 
of  the  Spirit  ",  for  that  seems  somehow  to  convey  the 
mood  of  the  play,  a  finely  balanced  adjustment  of  in- 
tellect and  sentiment. 

In  less  honest  hands  than  those  of  Alexander  Serge- 
ievitch  Griboyedoff,  "  The  Sorrows  of  the  Spirit " 
would  savor  of  fastidious  intellect  and  false  sentiment. 
Even  its  artistic  honesty  might  not  be  proof  against 
the  interpretation  of  artists  less  serious  than  Youzhin 
and  his  players.  In  fact,  the  presence  in  the  ensemble 
of  one  of  the  few  pieces  of  really  bad  acting  I  saw  in  an 
important  role  in  a  leading  theatre  during  my  entire 
winter  in  Russia  showed  how  dependent  the  play  is 
on  the  sympathy  and  understanding  and  sincerity  with 
which  it  is  presented,  for  it  was  this  blemish  rather  than 
the  Art  Theatre's  superiority  in  managing  the  crowded 
reception  scene  in  the  third  act  which  made  the 
younger  institution's  production  of  the  same  play  more 
satisfactory  in  spite  of  Youzhin's  masterly  performance 
of  Famusoff  and  in  spite  of  the  fitness  of  seeing  a 
play  of  a  century  ago  in  a  playhouse  of  its  own  era. 

The  clash  of  education  and  cosmopolitan  views 
against  the  stupidities  of  daily  life  in  an  isolated  civili- 
zation and  the  power  of  the  latter  to  smother  and  over- 

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The  Deeper  Roots  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

ride  the  former  is  the  theme  of  "  The  Sorrows  of  the 
Spirit."  Alexander  Andreievitch  Tchatsky  is  the 
young  man  whose  homecoming  brings  such  bitter  dis- 
illusioning. Before  his  exit  into  the  world,  he  had 
loved  Sophia,  daughter  of  Famusoff,  a  substantial  type 
of  higher  official  in  Moscow.  On  his  return,  he  seeks 
her  out,  less  in  passion,  one  feels,  than  from  self-re- 
spect, only  to  find  that  she  has  forgotten  him  for  the 
philandering  secretary  of  her  father,  Moltchalin.  He 
seems  unable,  however,  to  accept  this  plausible  incident 
in  a  complacent,  animal-like  existence  such  as  the  social 
leaders  of  Moscow  lived  a  century  ago,  and  instead 
of  withdrawing  immediately  to  the  isolation  which  his 
own  development  has  builded  round  him,  he  remains 
to  cross  verbal  swords  with  Famusoff  and  his  friends, 
criticising  Moscow  "  where  the  houses  are  new  and  the 
prejudices  ancient ",  the  perpetual  balls,  the  verses  in- 
scribed in  albums,  the  celebrities  of  the  English  Club, 
the  language  "  Franco-Nizhni-Novgorodian."  Tchat- 
sky only  gets  himself  well  disliked  for  his  pains  and  in 
the  end  finds  himself  charged  even  with  an  unbalanced 
mind.  Thus  does  complacency  protect  itself  from  its 
critics.  In  the  end,  after  shielding  Sophia  from  scan- 
dal at  his  own  expense,  he  exclaims :  "  Away  from 
Moscow !  I  shall  never  return  again.  Somewhere  in 
the  world  I  shall  try  to  find  a  corner  for  my  wounded 
feelings,"  and  he  calls  his  carriage. 

Tchatsky  has  been  seen  by  those  who  doubt  Russia's 
moral  fibre  and  constructive  power  as  a  kind  of  Russian 
Hamlet,  the  embodiment  of  an  inhibited  will  power, 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


national  in  scope.  To  the  extent  that  he  is  faithful  to 
the  frequent  inability  of  the  Russian  to  persist  practi- 
cally in  an  effort  to  achieve  by  slow  degrees  some  de- 
sired change,  there  may  be  a  measure  of  truth  in  such  an 
interpretation.  The  whole  point  of  the  play  is  missed, 
however,  if  we  do  not  see  how  Griboyedoff,  as  artist 
rather  than  as  propagandist,  used  Tchatsky  for  the 
purpose  of  laying  bare  the  sophistry  and  shallowness 
and  complacency  of  the  social  fabric  of  his  time.  The 
fact  that  "  The  Sorrows  of  the  Spirit  "  is  more  highly 
regarded  in  Russia  to-day  than  when  it  was  written 
is  proof  to  me  that  Russian  life  has  moved  far  from 
that  period  of  smug  isolation  and  that  the  fine  ideals  of 
Tchatsky  stir  a  responsive  chord  in  the  public  mind 
and  heart  which  will  rebuild  Russia  anew  out  of  her 
present  ruins. 

According  to  Pushkin  and  other  friends  of  Griboyed- 
off, Tchatsky  is  autobiographical  in  his  role  of  critic. 
The  playwright,  born  January  17,  1795,  travelled 
abroad  and  was  in  government  service  for  a  while  in 
Persia,  meeting  his  death  at  Teheran  when  a  mob 
stormed  the  embassy  February  11,  1829.  "The  Sor- 
rows of  the  Spirit  "  is  the  single  work  by  which  he  will 
be  remembered,  although  he  wrote  also  of  the  Orient. 
The  idea  for  the  play  came  to  him  in  1812  but  he  did 
not  begin  work  on  it  until  1816.  Two  years  later  at 
the  age  of  twenty-three  he  had  completed  two  acts, 
but  the  play  was  not  finished  until  1824.  It  encoun- 
tered the  snares  of  the  censorship  from  the  start.  In 
1825;  two  parts  of  it  were  printed,  but  it  was  not 

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The  Deeper  Roots  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

played,  even  in  a  modified  form,  until  1831,  two  years 
after  the  playwright's  death.  All  of  it  but  a  few  por- 
tions was  printed  in  1833,  but  the  work  in  its  entirety, 
both  as  book  and  as  stage  play,  had  to  wait  the  liberal 
period  of  the  reign  of  Tsar  Alexander  II  in  1860. 

Two  actors  —  Motchaloff ,  tragedian,  and  Shchep- 
kin,  comedian  —  founded  the  fame  and  the  tradition 
of  the  Small  State  Theatre  early  in  the  last  century. 
The  present  building  was  not  erected  until  1841,  but 
their  influence  had  already  established  the  tendencies 
which  were  to  differentiate  the  Russian  theatre  of  the 
nineteenth  century  from  that  of  western  Europe. 
While  English  and  French  stages  were  still  obsessed 
with  the  old,  false  pseudo-classicism  of  declamation, 
the  theatre  in  Moscow  under  the  guidance  of  Motchal- 
off and  Shchepkin  had  cast  aside  these  artificialities  and 
had  created  a  new  art  characterized  by  simplicity,  life- 
likeness  and  sincerity  of  execution.  Through  this 
movement,  the  Russian  theatre  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury linked  itself  closely  with  the  creators  of  Russian 
literature,  Pushkin,  Gogol,  Griboyedoff  and  Bielinsky; 
with  the  Moscow  University  of  the  epoch  of  Granov- 
sky;  and  finally  and  mainly  with  the  whole  texture  of 
Russian  life.  This  contact  with  life  has  never  since 
been  lost,  for  the  Russian  theatre  had  entered  into  life 
not  as  an  artificial  appendage  or  addition  but  as  a  com- 
posite part  of  its  organism.  Nowhere  else  in  the  world 
to-day,  except  perhaps  in  Japan  and  China,  is  the  thea- 
tre so  firmly  anchored  in  the  habits  and  the  affections 
of  the  people  as  it  is  in  Russia. 


The  Russian  Theatre 


In  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  the 
Small  Theatre  reaped  the  fruits  of  the  instruction 
of  Motchaloff  and  Shchepkin.  The  fecund  pen  of 
Ostrovsky  produced  a  constant  stream  of  works  of  the 
first  rank  for  the  use  of  its  artists,  and  the  theatre 
thrived  under  this  incentive  just  as  the  Art  Theatre 
found  stimulus  and  inspiration  in  the  successive  works 
of  Anton  Tchehoff  during  its  birth  years  from  1898  to 
1904.  The  company's  roster  was  studded  with  the 
names  of  such  masters  of  the  theatre  as  Sadovsky, 
Shumsky,  Samarin,  Zhivokiny,  Fedotova,  Vassilieva, 
Miedviedieva  and  Nikulina.  The  comedy  of  manners 
was  their  forte,  —  Ostrovsky  first,  and  then  western 
European  comedy  with  Moliere  at  its  head.  They 
used  to  say  in  Moscow,  "  Sadovsky  without  Ostrov- 
sky and  Ostrovsky  without  Sadovsky  are  inconceiv- 
able", and  that  Shumsky  in  Moliere  surpassed  the 
artists  of  the  Comedie  Franqaise. 

Little  by  little,  however,  under  the  influence  of  bu- 
reaucratic administration,  the  commonplace  work  of 
such  play  tinkers  as  Kruiloff  (not  the  fable  writer), 
Diatchenko  and  Tarnovsky  crept  into  the  repertory  in 
the  form  of  made-over  plays  from  the  French,  and  yet, 
side  by  side  with  mediocrity,  the  finer  traditions  of  the 
theatre  were  kept  alive  by  a  younger  generation  of 
players  from  whom  fame  singled  out  for  especial  at- 
tention Yermolova,  Lyeshkovskaya,  Sadovskaya,  You- 
zhin  and  Pravdin,  —  all  of  them  still  with  the  com- 
pany; and  Lyensky,  Goryeff,  Maksheieff,  Ribakoff, 
Sadovsky  II,  Akimova  and  Muzil.  Under  the  impulse 

132 


The  Deeper  Roots  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

of  this  brilliant  group,  the  old  classic  tragedy  was  re- 
stored to  the  repertory  alongside  the  continuing  Os- 
trovsky;  and  the  striking  tragic  powers  of  Youzhin, 
Lyensky  and  Goryeff  found  expression  in  the  plays  of 
Shakespeare,  Lope  de  Vega,  Goethe,  Schiller,  Hugo 
and  Pushkin.  The  last  quarter  of  the  century,  there- 
fore, set  a  new  mark  for  the  theatre  and  the  repertory 
reached  its  greatest  breadth.  About  1900,  however, 
death  and  illness  weakened  the  company  and  the  autoc- 
racy increased  its  interference,  and  so  the  Small  Thea- 
tre went  into  eclipse  for  almost  a  decade  behind  the 
looming  figure  of  the  newly  born  Moscow  Art  Theatre. 
In  1908,  Youzhin  was  forced  into  leadership  by  public 
opinion  against  the  official  antagonism,  and,  profiting 
by  the  example  of  the  Art  Theatre's  thoroughness,  he 
has  restored  the  state  institution  in  a  period  of  ten 
years  to  its  elder  glory. 

What  lies  ahead  of  Alexander  Ivanovitch  and  his 
company  I  do  not  know.  The  Revolution  of  March, 
1917,  found  the  theatre  ready  to  take  advantage  of 
freedom  to  consolidate  in  the  hands  of  the  artists  them- 
selves the  powers  yielded  by  the  passing  bureaucracy. 
A  long  document  was  drawn  up,  safeguarding  not  only 
the  individual  artist  but  the  welfare  of  the  production 
as  a  whole  and  providing  for  a  sharp  division  between 
the  financial  and  artistic  functions  of  the  theatre.  De- 
spite Bolshevik  threats  from  Petrograd,  Alexander 
Ivanovitch  hewed  to  the  course  of  the  theatre  as  de- 
cided in  council,  regardless  of  the  new  political  tyr- 
anny. Since  the  removal  of  the  Government  to  Mos- 

133 


The  Russian  Theatre 


cow,  his  course  has  necessarily  been  more  discreet. 
The  theatre  is  simply  waiting  for  the  return  of  social 
order  and  peace,  —  waiting  patiently,  but  not  idly,  for 
it  knows  that  it  is  well  to  repeat  the  elder  truth  and 
beauty  until  you  have  a  new  song  to  sing. 

My  parting  from  Alexander  Ivanovitch  was  as  bit- 
ter as  the  greeting  had  been  joyful.  Two  days  before 
I  left  Moscow  I  called  on  him  briefly  in  his  apartment 
to  say  good-by.  With  a  pause  of  hesitation,  he  asked 
me  whether  it  would  be  possible  for  him  to  come  to 
America  and  play  such  roles  as  Shylock  with  an  Eng- 
lish speaking  company.  I  answered  that  I  thought  it 
might  be  arranged,  and  then,  very  simply,  almost  like 
a  child,  he  asked,  "  But  can  a  Russian  come  to  America 
to-day  without  being  ashamed  that  he  is  a  Russian  ?  " 

And  in  the  surge  of  feeling  that  came  over  me,  I  al- 
most forgot  to  dispel  his  doubts,  for  here  was  the 
ruthless  imprint  of  political  march  and  countermarch 
on  the  sensitive  soul  of  the  artist. 


134 


CHAPTER   IX 
THE  KAMERNY,  A  THEATRE  OF  REVOLT 

I  PLUNGED  into  the  Russian  theatre  on  the  extreme 
left,  to  use  the  political  terminology  which  prevails 
in  the  Land  of  Revolutions  to-day.  Inasmuch  as  it 
was  the  first  theatre  to  recover  from  the  enforced 
vacation  of  the  November  Revolution,  I  started  my 
theatregoing  in  Moscow  at  the  Kamerny,  a  Little 
Theatre  which  is  already  a  big  theatre,  —  big  in  accom- 
plishment, in  significance  and  in  prospects.  The 
Kamerny  is  an  interesting  and  important  theatre  not 
only  because  it  is  new,  but  because  it  knows  what  it  is 
trying  to  accomplish  and  it  has  learned  by  careful  and 
earnest  experiment  many  of  the  ways  to  accomplish  it. 

The  Kamerny,  of  course,  is  a  revolutionary  theatre 
in  an  artistic  and  not  in  a  political  sense.  Contrary  to 
the  vast  majority  of  Russians,  its  members  would 
rather  discuss  light  and  color  and  posture  than  the 
future  of  the  State.  It  is  revolutionary  in  the  sense 
that  it  has  gone  so  far  along  the  path  of  secession  from 
the  old  conventional  western  theatre  that  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre,  a  revolutionist  of  the  early  years  of  the 
century,  now  stands  guard  in  the  conservative  or  right 
corner  of  the  Russian  stage!  The  unfettered  human 

135 


The  Russian  Theatre 


imagination  is  its  inspiration;  a  simple  symbolism 
based  on  common  psychological  experience  is  its 
method  of  expression;  post  impressionism,  cubism  and 
futurism  are  only  a  few  of  its  manners  of  expression. 
And  a  frank  and  naive  honesty  and  sincerity  are  the 
dominant  characteristics  of  the  group  itself  and  of 
the  artists  whom  it  comprises. 

The  Kamerny  had  a  history.  I  was  sure  of  that 
after  I  had  visited  it  several  times.  It  had  a  definite, 
conscious  theory  of  the  theatre,  too.  I  was  equally 
sure  of  that.  For  no  theatre  can  display  play  after 
play  in  its  repertory,  all  of  them  far  off  the  beaten 
track  of  stage  conventions  and  all  of  them  achieving 
some  measurable  proportion  of  their  evident  intention, 
without  having  both  a  history  in  which  it  has  had  time 
to  find  itself  and  a  theory  to  guide  it  along  the  path 
of  its  explorations.  And  it  must  be  equally  true  that 
such  a  theatre  has  a  personnel  consisting  of  at  least 
one  and  probably  more  than  one  distinctly  individual 
and  original  imagination. 

Speaking  by  the  calendar,  the  Kamerny  is  a  war 
theatre,  for  it  opened  its  doors  for  its  first  perform- 
ance December  25,  1914,  well  after  Hindenburg  had 
sent  scurrying  eastward  the  Russian  hosts  that  had 
escaped  his  nets  in  the  Mazurian  lakes.  In  reality, 
however,  it  had  its  artistic  birth  a  full  season  before 
in  the  Svobodny  or  Free  Theatre,  an  experimental 
institution  which  opened  its  first  and  only  season  in 
the  fall  of  1913.  A  schism  in  its  ranks  resulted  in 
the  autumn  of  1914  in  the  founding  of  two  theatres 

136 


The  Kamerny,  a  Theatre  of  Revolt 

in  Moscow,  the  Kamerny,  which  took  with  it  the  regis- 
seur  of  the  Free  Theatre,  Alexander  Tairoff,  and  sev- 
eral of  its  most  prominent  players,  and  the  Moscow 
Dramatic  Theatre,  which  has  become  more  of  a  pop- 
ular house,  losing  the  revolutionary  and  experimental 
impulse  that  gave  birth  to  the  parent  stage  and  that 
still  drives  the  Kamerny  along  on  its  courageous  path 
of  discovery. 

If  the  Kamerny  is  not,  therefore,  strictly  a  war 
theatre,  it  is  still  a  theatre  which  has  grown  to  sta- 
bility and  self-consciousness  either  because  of  or  in 
spite  of  the  war.  All  of  its  important  work  has  been 
done  while  the  Russian  armies  were  in  the  field,  while 
some  of  its  own  members  were  at  the  front  or  else 
while  in  uniform  on  furlough  they  snatched  precious 
moments  to  rehearse  or  even  play  with  the  company 
at  home.  I  know  of  no  other  country  which  has  thus 
brought  into  the  world  and  nurtured  a  movement  in 
the  realm  of  art  while  still  holding  the  grim  guns  of 
war  and  feeding  and  nursing  the  wounded.  To  see 
this  same  theatre  making  its  allotted  production  each 
month  under  the  anxious  and  uncertain  moments  of 
revolution  is  signal  to  bow  before  its  indomitable  spirit 
and  to  yield  all  honor  to  that  portion  of  the  Russian 
people  which  is  determined  to  save  for  the  world  from 
the  ruins  of  its  political  estate  the  beauty  and  the 
imagination  which  it  has  found  and  cherished. 

The  first  production  at  the  Kamerny  in  December, 
1914,  was  the  great  Hindu  classic,  "  Sakuntala  ",  by 
Kalidasa.  The  translation  was  made  by  Constantin 

137 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Balmont,  one  of  Russia's  leading  contemporary  poets. 
The  setting  was  designed  by  Pavel  Kuznetsoff,  whose 
work  is  most  often  exhibited  with  the  futurists  and 
the  post-impressionists.  The  same  artist  was  respon- 
sible for  the  scenery  of  Synge's  "  The  Playboy  of  the 
Western  World  ",  which  joined  the  Hindu  drama  later 
in  the  same  month.  Evidently,  considerable  work  had 
been  done  on  the  repertory  of  the  theatre  before  it 
opened  its  doors,  a  fact  which  is  characteristic  of 
Russian  thoroughness  in  matters  of  art;  for  in  Jan- 
uary, 1915,  the  second  month  of  the  first  season,  two 
more  productions  were  made:  "Life  Is  a  Dream", 
by  Calderon,  with  scenery  by  N.  K.  Kalmakoff,  and 
"The  Fan",  by  Goldoni,  with  scenery  by  Natalia 
Gontcharova.  The  fifth  and  last  production  of  the 
first  season  was  made  in  February,  "  The  Pentecost 
at  Toledo  ",  by  Kuzmin,  one  of  the  pantomimes  for 
which  the  Kamerny  has  shown  a  great  predilection. 
The  artist  Kuznetsoff  appeared  again  as  the  designer 
of  the  scenery. 

Only  four  productions  were  made  in  the  second  sea- 
son, 1915-1916,  at  intervals  of  a  month,  beginning  in 
September.  The  first  of  them  was  "  The  Marriage  of 
Figaro  ",  by  Beaumarchais,  with  a  special  score  writ- 
ten by  Henri  Forterre  and  with  scenery  by  Sergei 
Sudeykin.  October  brought  to  the  Kamerny  stage 
Remy  de  Gourmont's  "  The  Carnival  of  Life  ",  also 
with  scenery  by  Sudeykin.  France  also  provided  the 
third  bill  of  the  second  season,  for  in  December,  1915, 
Rostand's  "  Cyrano  de  Bergerac  ",  with  music  by  For- 

138 


terre,  was  added  to  the  repertory.  Simoff  made  the 
scene  designs.  Then  in  January  the  last  production 
of  the  season  was  made,  —  "  Two  Worlds  ",  by  Tor 
Herberg,  with  scenery  by  Fedotoff. 

Shakespeare,  England  and  "  The  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor  "  had  the  honor  of  opening  the  busy  season 
of  1916-1917,  during  which  six  new  pieces  were  added 
to  the  repertory.  The  Elizabethan  whimsy  was  first 
played  in  October,  1916,  with  scenery  by  Lyentuloff. 
"  Thamira  of  the  Cithern "  followed  in  November. 
This  Bacchic  drama  by  Annyensky,  with  a  special 
score  by  Forterre,  was  one  of  the  most  successful  pro- 
ductions of  the  season  and  it  was  held  over  for  the 
following  season  when  I  saw  it.  For  it  an  artist  from 
Kieff,  Alexandra  Exter,  designed  some  intriguing 
scenery,  distinctly  cubist  in  its  lines  and  masses.  The 
theatre's  second  pantomime  followed  later  in  the  same 
month,  November.  It  was  called  "  The  Veil  of  Pier- 
rette " ;  it  was  written  by  Donanhy  and  its  scenes  were 
designed  by  the  artist  Arapoff.  I  heard  it  praised  in 
such  terms  that  I  am  sure  it  will  not  be  dropped  from 
the  theatre's  repertory,  although  it  was  not  revived 
while  I  was  in  Moscow.  Sem  Benelli's  "  The  Supper 
of  Jokes  ",  with  scenery  by  Foreger,  followed  in  De- 
cember, 1916;  Labiche's  "  Un  Chapeau  de  Faille 
d'ltalie",  with  scenery  by  Fedotoff,  in  January,  1917. 
The  last  production  of  the  third  season,  also  held  over 
for  the  fourth  year's  repertory,  was  "  The  Azure  Car- 
pet",  by  Liuboff  Stolitsa.  Forterre  also  composed 
music  for  this  play,  and  the  Armenian  artist,  Migan- 

139 


The  Russian  Theatre 


adzhian,  who  is  well  known  and  liked  in  Russia,  to-day, 
designed  the  scenery  for  it. 

England,  or  rather  Ireland,  also  opened  the  fourth 
season  at  the  Kamerny,  for  the  week  after  the  passing 
of  the  November  Revolution  permitted  me  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  Russian  theatre,  I  found  Oscar 
Wilde's  hectic  tragedy,  "  Salome  ",  strongly  intrenched 
in  the  Kamerny 's  repertory.  Of  that  production  I 
shall  write  in  a  succeeding  chapter,  as  well  as  of  the 
later  additions  to  the  repertory :  Lotar's  "  King  Harle- 
quin"; Debussy's  pantomime,  "The  Box  of  Toys"; 
and  Claudel's  "  L'Echange." 

Back  of  such  a  history,  as  I  have  said,  there  must 
be  a  definite,  conscious  theory  of  the  theatre.  That 
theory  I  finally  obtained  by  dint  of  much  persuasion 
in  the  form  of  a  French  translation  by  Forterre  of  the 
Russian  original  formulated  by  Tairoff  himself.  I 
pass  it  on  to  America,  therefore,  in  the  form  of  a 
paraphrase,  for  a  literal  translation  into  a  third  lan- 
guage is  not  likely  to  be  very  literal  after  all. 

The  founders  of  the  Kamerny  Theatre  were  really 
two :  Alexander  Yakovlevitch  Tairoff,  rcgisseur,  and 
Alice  Giorgievna  Koonen,  leading  actress.  Since  1914, 
the  directing  board  has  been  increased  by  two :  Henri 
Forterre,  a  French  composer  who  has  resided  in  Rus- 
sia almost  a  decade;  and  Nikolai  Mihailovitch  Tsere- 
telli,  who  now  shares  with  Koonen  the  leading  acting 
roles  in  the  theatre. 

In  the  minds  of  Tairoff  and  Koonen,  the  new  theatre 
set  for  itself  the  task  of  accomplishing  a  threefold  end : 

140 


1.  The  putting  in  practice  of  the  theories  of  a  new 
form  of  theatrical  art. 

2.  The  breaking  away  from  the  traditions  and  the 
routine  which  up  until  the  founding  of  the  Kamerny 
had  held  sway  over  the  Moscow  theatres  and  the  entire 
Russian  stage,  with  the  exception  of  the  experiments 
and   productions   of   Meyerhold   and   Yevreynoff   in 
Petrograd.     Concretely,  this  purpose  amounted  to  a 
struggle  against  the  manner  and  the  method  of  the 
realistic  theatre  and  especially  those  employed  at  the 
Moscow  Art  Theatre. 

3.  The  expression  of  the  theatrical  action  in  all 
its  fulness,  its  richness  and  its  wide  possibilities.     The 
theatre  should  not  shut  itself  up  in  any  particular 
branch  of  its  art,  but  should  keep  itself  varied  and 
supple  and  flexible  and  plastic. 

Tairoff  believed  so  thoroughly  in  his  theory  of  the 
theatre  that  he  was  persuaded  that  the  new  institution 
ought  to  make  its  way  as  any  necessary  thing  makes  its 
way  just  as  soon  as  the  public  saw  that  it  was  fulfill- 
ing a  normal  function.  The  contemporary  theatre, 
as  Tairoff  saw  it,  had  arrived  at  an  impasse  by  depend- 
ing on  two  opposite  poles  of  expression.  On  the  one 
hand  it  was  supporting  itself  on  realism  and  a  minute 
psychology,  thus  losing  the  exterior  sense  of  form 
without  which  the  theatre  can  not  exist.  On  the  other 
hand  it  found  expression  in  the  objective  spectacle, 
such  as  the  fairy  play  in  all  its  ramifications  and  devel- 
opments, a  form  which  lost  or  neglected  the  intimate 
emotions.  The  resulting  deadlock  was  such  that  it 

141 


The  Russian  Theatre 


was  difficult  to  emerge  from  it  without  creating  a  new 
form  of  theatrical  art. 

In  this  struggle,  therefore,  between  the  theatre  of 
psychological  sensations,  representing  the  thesis,  and 
the  theatre  of  the  fairy  spectacle,  representing  the 
antithesis,  the  Kamerny  has  taken  an  intermediary 
position,  representing  the  theatre  of  synthesis  and  try- 
ing to  reconcile  and  ally  both  emotion  and  form  in  a 
harmonic  and  indissoluble  whole.  In  order  to  arrive 
at  this  end,  the  Kamerny  has  thrown  off  the  two  yokes 
which  so  long  have  enslaved  the  theatre,  literature  and 
painting,  and  has  tried  to  deliver  it  from  their  super- 
imposed laws  which  have  prevented  it  from  developing 
according  to  its  own  natural  laws. 

Working  from  these  principles  and  toward  these 
ends,  the  Kamerny  forced  itself  to  create  individually 
the  atmosphere  of  each  play.  And  in  particular  it 
found  that  it  had  to  repudiate  the  scenery  of  two  di- 
mensions, width  and  depth,  and  construct  the  surface 
of  its  scenery  in  three  dimensions,  width,  depth  and 
height,  in  such  a  way  that  these  dimensions  would  be 
in  harmonic  relation  with  the  rhythmic  and  plastic 
movements  demanded  by  the  mise  en  scene  of  the  play. 
The  quality  of  height  at  the  Kamerny,  therefore,  has 
no  leading  strings  to  reality,  but  is  dependent  on  the 
emotional  and  rhythmic  effect  sought  in  each  scene  of 
each  play. 

The  theatricalisation  of  the  theatre,  —  that  is  the 
formula  and  the  theory  in  brief  that  presides  over  the 
experiments  at  the  Kamerny. 

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The  Kamerny,  a  Theatre  of  Revolt 

This  formula  and  this  theory  of  the  theatre  were 
spread  among  his  associates  by  Tairoff  in  the  role  of 
actor  and  regisseur  and  adviser,  and  as  a  result,  one  by 
one,  he  has  gathered  around  him  the  small  group  which 
now  directs  the  Kamerny  and  the  larger  group  which 
assists  in  carrying  out  the  conceptions  of  the  directors. 
The  members  of  the  directing  board  I  have  named 
already.  In  addition  to  them,  the  company  includes 
about  twenty-five  others  who  all  believe  in  the  general 
artistic  and  dramatic  theories  of  Tairoff.  When  it 
comes  to  details,  however,  I  found  that  individual 
players  often  disagree  with  the  director  and  follow 
lines  of  original  thought  and  imagination.  The  group, 
therefore,  is  an  independent  concourse  of  artists  who 
happen  to  be  in  agreement  on  the  guiding  impulse  of 
their  craft. 

Realizing  the  subordinate  place  of  painting  in  the 
art  of  the  theatre  but  at  the  same  time  understanding 
its  cooperative  importance,  a  number  of  Russian  paint- 
ers have  contributed  their  best  and  most  representative 
work  to  the  productions  at  the  Kamerny.  Here  they 
have  vied  with  one  another  as  keenly  as  they  have  in 
their  own  exhibitions.  Among  the  best  known  who 
have  helped  the  Kamerny  find  its  medium  are :  Alex- 
andra Exter,  whose  costume  designs  for  Wilde's 
"  Salome  "  probably  come  nearer  than  any  other  single 
contribution  to  accomplishing  the  unique  purpose  of 
the  theatre;  Sudeykin,  Kuznetsoff,  Gontcharova,  Kal- 
makoff,  Lyentuloff  and  Miganadzhian. 

Fulfilling  the  line  of  conduct  it  has  traced  for  itself, 

143 


The  Russian  Theatre 


the  Kamerny  has  not  stopped  with  dramatic  art  in  the 
accepted  sense,  but  it  has  gone  on  into  the  study  of 
gesture  and  pantomime  in  the  belief  that  in  this  latter 
art  there  is  an  opportunity  to  place  in  strong  and  effec- 
tive relief  with  the  greatest  persuasive  power  all  the 
nuances  hidden  in  the  theatrical  art.  This  it  does  by 
making  the  actor  acquire  the  emotional  gesture,  really 
inseparable  in  drama  from  the  word,  but  lost  little  by 
little  in  these  latter  years.  According  to  these  meth- 
ods, three  pantomimes  have  been  presented  at  the 
Kamerny:  "The  Pentecost  at  Toledo",  by  Kuzmin; 
"  The  Veil  of  Pierrette  ",  by  Donanhy  and  "  The  Box 
of  Toys  ",  by  Debussy. 

The  position  of  music  in  this  newly  conceived  theat- 
rical art  has  been  largely  developed  and  made  conscious 
by  Forterre.  In  the  words  of  the  composer  himself, 
"  Music  has  hitherto  been  represented  in  the  dramatic 
art  as  a  dynamic  element,  intended  to  strengthen  more 
or  less  the  dramatic  situation.  This  function  has  now 
been  replaced  by  a  rhythmic  and  melodic  element 
which,  allying  itself  to  the  gestures  of  the  actor,  aug- 
ments the  expression  by  the  persuasion  of  the  rhythm 
and  the  melody."  Such  a  use  of  music  in  the  theatre 
was  first  made  by  Ilya  Sats  who  composed  the  jolly, 
elfin  score  for  the  original  production  of  "  The  Blue 
Bird "  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  Forterre  has 
taken  up  the  task  where  Sats  left  it  at  his  death  a  few 
years  ago  and  has  carried  it  to  interesting  and  some- 
times surprising  lengths  in  the  most  recent  of  the 
Kamerny  productions.  The  results  obtained  are  note- 

144 


The  Kamernyj  a  Theatre  of  Revolt 

worthy  in  the  sense  that  the  public  when  it  sees  a 
piece  played  does  not  often  take  into  account  that  the 
musical  element  mingles  itself  in  the  dramatic  element 
and  that  without  it,  according  to  the  principles  of 
Tairoff,  the  dramatic  movement  itself  is  impossible. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  no  doubt  that  this  same  public 
is  deeply  even  if  not  consciously  moved  and  influenced 
by  the  music  as  it  is  used  at  the  Kamerny. 

Just  as  a  definite  theory  underlies  an  institution's 
history,  so  an  individual  imagination  underlies  every 
theory.  In  the  Kamerny,  therefore,  everything  leads 
back  to  the  imagination  and  the  personality  of  Alex- 
ander Tairoff.  The  guiding  head  of  Russia's  most 
revolutionary  theatre  is  still  very  young  —  only  thirty- 
three  —  and  he  entered  the  theatre  more  or  less  as  an 
afterthought,  since  he  studied  for  the  law  as  a  pro- 
fession. He  has  reached  his  present  position,  there- 
fore, in  a  very  few  years.  His  first  experience  in  the 
theatre  dates  back  only  to  1912  when  he  abandoned 
the  law  and  acted  and  served  as  manager  in  a  cabaret 
known  as  The  Stray  Dog  in  Petrograd.  Later  in 
the  same  year  he  founded  and  managed  the  Theatre 
Mobile,  a  travelling  dramatic  company  playing  reper- 
tory and  resembling  our  own  travelling  road  companies 
in  its  business  arrangements.  With  its  excursions  into 
every  corner  of  the  empire,  however,  it  was  a  new 
departure  and  attracted  considerable  attention  to  its 
young  regisseur.  A  year  later  saw  Tairoff  at  the  head 
of  the  newly  founded  Free  Theatre  in  Moscow  and 
still  another  year  at  the  head  of  the  Kamerny  Theatre 

145 


The  Russian  Theatre 


when  the  parent  institution  split  into  two  organ- 
izations. 

Alexander  Tairoff  is  a  gentle  spirit,  a  man  of  simple, 
sympathetic  manner.  In  defense  of  his  theories,  how- 
ever, he  becomes  as  pugnacious  as  the  legal  profession 
for  which  he  was  trained  would  ever  demand.  In 
stature  he  is  small,  in  complexion  dark,  with  a  round 
face,  regular  features  and  a  sensitive  mouth.  Owing 
to  his  stature  he  looks  far  more  at  home  in  his  trim 
military  uniform  than  he  does  in  the  ever-present 
Russian  cutaway.  He  is  a  tireless  worker,  and  one 
production  is  hardly  safely  before  the  public  view 
when  he  is  hard  at  work  in  conferences  and  rehearsals 
for  the  next  one.  As  usual  with  a  stage  director,  his 
real  qualities  come  out  in  rehearsal  when  he  enters  into 
the  work  of  each  of  his  actors  with  such  sympathy 
and  such  understanding  and  yet  with  such  a  clear-cut 
conception  of  what  he  wishes  to  attain  that  the  experi- 
ence is  one  of  great  stimulation  both  to  director  and 
actor.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  member  of  the  Ka- 
merny  company  who  wouldn't  turn  handsprings  around 
the  stage  until  exhausted  if  Tairoff  bade  him. 

The  most  intense  and  the  most  gifted  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  simple  artist  of  the  entire  group  is 
Alice  Giorgievna  Koonen.  To  her  more  than  to  all 
the  other  members  of  the  acting  staff  put  together  is 
due  the  success  the  Kamerny  has  had  with  the  public. 
Through  her  the  Kamerny  family  tree  reaches  back 
to  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  and  Stanislavsky,  —  the 
institution  and  the  man  which  seem  impossible  to 

146 


The  Kamerny,  a  Theatre  of  Revolt 

escape  wherever  you  go  in  the  Russian  theatre.  Koo- 
nen  was  a  pupil  in  the  school  of  the  Art  Theatre  prior 
to  the  founding  of  the  present  Studio  theatres  of  the 
Art  Theatre.  Her  first  important  role  on  the  public 
stage  was  Mytyl  in  the  original  cast  of  Maeterlinck's 
"  The  Blue  Bird  "  in  1908.  She  was  born  of  Belgian 
parents,  a  fact  which  gives  singular  interest  to  her 
participation  in  the  first  performance  on  any  stage  of 
the  f eerie  of  the  great  Belgian  playwright.  Anitra  in 
Ibsen's  "  Peer  Gynt "  was  another  important  role  she 
played  under  Stanislavsky  in  1912.  Her  acting  ideals 
and  her  theory  of  the  theatre,  however,  did  not  find 
sympathetic  surroundings  at  the  Art  Theatre  and  so 
when  the  Free  Theatre  was  founded  in  1913  she 
went  to  it  as  its  leading  actress.  There  she  played  the 
role  of  Plum  Blossom  in  the  first  Russian  production 
of  "  The  Yellow  Jacket."  At  the  Kamerny  her  most 
strikingly  successful  work  has  been  done  in  "  Sakun- 
tala  ",  "  The  Veil  of  Pierrette  "  and  "  Salome."  In 
appearance  and  manner  off  stage  she  is  diffident  and 
retiring.  In  the  theatre,  however,  she  displays  an 
astonishing  breadth  of  method,  a  vivid  sense  of  char- 
acterization and  a  sweeping,  devastating  passionate 
power  that  rises  to  its  full  height  in  the  richly  chal- 
lenging role  of  the  Hebrew  princess  in  the  Wilde 
tragedy.  The  first  impression  is  that  her  voice  with 
its  rich  cadences  and  its  throbbing  emotional  qualities 
is  her  greatest  possession.  To  see  her  in  pantomime, 
deprived  of  the  use  of  that  instrument,  however,  is  to 
realize  that  her  instrument  is  her  entire  body  and  that 

147 


The  Russian  Theatre 


she  has  as  complete  control  of  its  rhythmic  power  as 
she  has  of  her  voice. 

The  Kamerny  would  not  be  complete  without  the 
genial  and  lovable  Forterre.  I  think  probably  he  did 
well  to  come  from  his  native  Paris,  where  he  was  a 
student  in  the  Conservatory,  to  his  adopted  home  in 
Russia.  Together  with  the  French  industry  and 
savoir  faire,  he  has  the  simple,  childlike  soul  of  the 
Russian  artist,  lacking  almost  altogether  the  sophisti- 
cation which  is  Paris.  He  told  me  one  day  that  he 
had  a  far  greater  belief  in  the  ability  of  the  Russian 
peasant  to  understand  and  create  a  great  art  than  in 
the  French  peasant,  because  the  Russian  peasant  has 
an  international  soul,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  he  was 
not  unconsciously  describing  his  own  imagination. 

At  the  Kamerny,  Forterre  is  supreme  in  the  field 
of  music  which  plays  so  important  a  part  in  the  pro- 
ductions of  this  theatre.  Since  the  beginning  of  the 
second  season  he  has  arranged  the  score  of  practically 
every  piece  that  has  been  played  and  for  a  number  of 
them  he  has  written  original  music  embodying  the 
principles  which  Tairoff  has  set  forth  and  with  which 
he  is  in  complete  accord.  He  has  not  limited  his  work 
of  composition  to  the  theatre,  though,  for  he  has  had 
numerous  pieces  performed  at  symphony  orchestra 
concerts,  among  which  the  best  known  are :  "  Dream  ", 
"  The  Perfumes  of  Happiness  ",  "  Man  "  and  "  The 
Music  in  the  Sky."  In  appearance  there  is  something 
in  him  resembling  William  Jennings  Bryan,  but  For- 
terre's  features  are  more  finely  chiselled.  I  shall  never 

148 


The  Kamerny,  a  Theatre  of  Revolt 

forget  a  glimpse  I  had  of  him  one  afternoon  on  a 
platform  high  up  in  the  fly  gallery  rehearsing  the 
theatre  orchestra  with  every  ounce  of  his  being,  even 
up  to  the  curling  black  hair  that  probably  suggests  the 
Nebraskan. 

The  fourth  member  of  the  directing  board  of  the 
Kamerny  is  Nikolai  Mihailovitch  Tseretelli,  a  young 
actor  whose  work  arouses  warm  sympathy  at  times 
and  unwilling  antagonism  at  others.  Like  Koonen,  he 
was  a  student  of  the  school  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 
but  never  played  an  important  role  there.  His  entire 
career  has  been  unfolded  on  the  stage  of  the  Kamerny. 
In  stature  he  is  rather  tall  and  his  height  is  thrown  into 
even  greater  relief  by  a  very  spare  figure.  I  am  still 
wondering  whether  it  is  not  this  tendency  to  physical 
awkwardness  which  interferes  at  times  with  his  serious 
work.  Certainly  it  is  this  quality  which  fits  him  so 
well  for  grotesque  roles  such  as  that  of  Harlequin  in 
the  commedia  dell'  arte.  He  has  much  yet  to  learn, 
especially  in  the  control  of  a  powerful  voice,  but  he 
is  no  less  tireless  than  his  peers  and  preceptor  and  he 
is  bound  to  improve  much  in  the  next  few  seasons. 

There  are  many  others  who  bring  individual  gifts 
to  the  Kamerny's  ensemble.  Boris  Ferdinandoff  stands 
out  especially  from  among  them,  for  in  addition  to 
acting  with  a  fine  simplicity  and  spirit,  he  is  an  artist, 
too,  and  has  designed  the  scenery  and  costumes  for 
two  productions. 

No  record  of  the  Kamerny  would  be  corqplete  with- 
out a  word  regarding  the  connection  with  its  destinies 

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of  Salzmann,  the  greatest  mechanical  genius  in  the 
lighting  of  the  modern  theatre.  Leaving  Russia  and 
his  native  Caucasus  for  lack  of  appreciation  of  his 
great  gifts,  he  went  to  Germany  and  at  Hellerau,  with 
Jaques-Dalcroze,  worked  out  the  lighting  of  the  strang- 
est theatre  in  Europe.  In  September,  1916,  he  saw 
the  work  of  the  Kamerny  for  the  first  time  and  found 
a  group  of  artists  with  whom  he  had  sympathy  and 
who  in  turn  understood  what  he  himself  was  trying  to 
do,  and  so  he  gave  Tairoff  and  his  company  the  right 
to  use  his  system  of  lighting  exclusively  in  Russia  for 
three  years. 

It  is  one  of  the  ironies  of  war  and  revolution,  how- 
ever, that  with  this  priceless  possession  the  Kamerny 
is  compelled  to  satisfy  itself  with  the  rudest  and  most 
primitive  of  lighting  systems.  Anything  like  a  mod- 
ern electrical  equipment  is  simply  not  to  be  purchased 
in  Russia.  The  year  before  the  Revolution,  the  Ka- 
merny was  able  to  approximate  Salzmann's  lighting  in 
its  original  quarters  in  the  Tverskoi  Boulevard.  Econ- 
omy and  the  pinch  of  war,  however,  compelled  them  to 
seek  a  more  modest  home,  and  consequently  I  saw  them 
struggling  to  realize  their  ideals  in  a  made-over  club 
room.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  after 
criticising  an  unpleasantly  "  jumpy "  effect  in  the 
lights  I  was  taken  back  stage  to  see  the  rheostats, — 
old  oaken  buckets  of  water  such  as  an  amateur  would 
rig  up  in  a  barn  in  America ! 

Better  days  lie  ahead  for  the  Kamerny,  however. 
Some  of  them  they  hope  to  spend  in  America,  where 


The  Kamerny,  a  Theatre  of  Revolt 

they  propose  to  give  their  vivid  production  of  "  Sa- 
lome ",  which  will  be  easily  understood  in  spite  of  its 
Russian  text,  and  several  of  their  pantomimes  which 
are  above  the  entangling  alliances  and  enmities  and 
difficulties  of  language. 

The  Kamerny  has  not  gone  by  beaten  paths.  It  has 
broken  with  routine  and  tradition.  And  so  it  has 
encountered  on  its  way  both  on  the  part  of  the  public 
and  the  critics  numerous  obstacles  which  have  some- 
times retarded  its  progress.  Still,  these  obstacles  have 
probably  also  enabled  it  to  learn  valuable  lessons.  The 
stubbornness  of  its  ideal  has  kept  the  group  cheerfully 
at  work  through  it  all,  until  little  by  little  the  theatre 
has  become  conscious  of  its  powers  and  its  methods 
and  the  public  has  become  accustomed  little  by  little 
to  the  new  and  strange  ideals  worked  out  on  its  stage. 
With  its  latest  productions,  the  Kamerny  feels  that  it 
is  beginning  to  reap  the  reward  of  following  a  path 
without  detour  and  without  compromise. 


CHAPTER   X 
"  SALOME  "  IN  CUBIST  VESTURE 

THE  most  impressive  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
representative  production  the  Kamerny  has  yet  made 
is  Oscar  Wilde's  tragedy  in  one  act,  "  Salome."  This 
passionate  document  may  have  been  produced  else- 
where more  extravagantly,  with  more  reclame,  more 
bustle  and  circumstance  and  more  world-famous  names 
in  its  cast.  In  fact,  it  was  so  played  while  I  was  in 
Moscow  at  the  Small  State  Theatre.  But  surely  it  has 
never  been  produced  either  as  drama  or  opera  with  a 
truer  or  more  fearless  appreciation  of  its  passionate 
import.  Green  bronze  is  not  its  keynote  at  the  Ka- 
merny, to  be  sure,  although  Wilde  so  directed,  but  then 
it  must  be  remembered  that  with  all  his  excursions  into 
the  erotic  and  the  exotic,  Wilde  never  knew  the  seduc- 
tive possibilities  of  the  newer  developments  in  art  and 
their  power  to  interpret  passion  in  drama. 

"  Salome  "  at  the  Kamerny  is  frank  and  unashamed. 
But  in  that  respect  it  does  not  depart  from  the  formula 
of  the  entire  Russian  theatre  or,  for  that  matter,  of  all 
the  Russian  arts.  A  sense  of  shame,  a  sense  of  mor- 
bidness is  completely  missing  from  the  esthetic  appre- 
ciation of  the  Russian.  He  takes  his  art  frankly  and 
openly,  stepping  over  and  beyond  the  half-mood,  mid- 
dle ground  of  the  double  entendre  of  the  French  and 

152 


"Salome"  in  Cubist  Vesture 


other  Europeans,  apparently  without  ever  recognizing 
its  presence.  Thus  he  emerges  on  the  other  side,  un- 
fettered by  any  moral  or  other  entangling  considera- 
tions, with  his  mind  and  his  imagination  and  his  feel- 
ings free  to  react  as  they  will  in  the  presence  of  works 
of  art.  It  may  be  due  to  the  primitive  nature  of  the 
Russian,  still  unspoiled  by  contact  with  Western  civili- 
zation. It  may  be  due  to  the  Eastern  strain  in  his 
blood  and  his  own  civilization.  Whatever  the  cause, 
it  has  given  to  Russian  art  and  to  the  Russian  theatre, 
in  particular,  the  originality,  the  freshness  and  the  im- 
petus which  sent  its  name  around  the  world  and  lured 
me  to  study  it  even  in  the  days  of  terror  and  revolution. 
The  curtain  at  the  Kamerny  is  the  first  omen  of  what 
lies  ahead,  for  the  auditorium,  the  reception  hall  of  a 
remodelled  club  house,  is  lacking  in  distinctive  fea- 
tures. In  Russia  as  everywhere  else  in  the  world,  the 
theatre  of  the  secession  has  to  be  content  with  meager 
physical  equipment  until  it  has  firmly  established 
itself.  The  curtain,  however,  seizes  the  eye  and  blots 
out  all  other  aspects.  It  is  a  bold  study  in  the  gro- 
tesque by  Alexandra  Exter.  Black  and  gold  are  its 
dominant  colors,  although  the  painter  has  not  slighted 
the  remainder  of  her  palette.  Facing  inwards  at  the 
centre  are  two  monsters  —  a  goat  and  a  leopard,  per- 
haps, standing  on  their  hind  feet.  Facing  outward  are 
two  equally  eery  demons  —  one  a  peacock  and  the  other 
the  swan's  progenitor,  it  may  be.  The  rest  is  a  back- 
ground of  distinct  post-impressionist  or  even  cubist 
humors. 

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This  intriguing  curtain  parts  to  the  strains  of  exotic 
music,  half  barbarous,  half  over-civilized,  composed 
principally  for  the  horns  by  the  Czech  musician,  Jules 
Giutel.  Still  another  curtain  is  now  disclosed,  painted 
by  Exter,  who  also  designed  the  scenery  and  the  cos- 
tumes for  "  Salome."  The  second  curtain  is  a  strong 
and  bold  piece  of  cubist  work  in  this  Russian  artist's 
most  recent,  self-assured  style.  It  sets  the  aggressive, 
tragic,  passionate  keynote  of  the  play,  with  a  sharp 
pointed  sun-like  arc  in  white  against  a  black  background 
and  above  it  to  the  right  three  flaming  banners  in  red  — 
military  pennons  set  dead  against  the  wind. 

When  this  curtain,  in  turn,  parts,  the  stage  is  dis- 
closed as  the  terrace  of  Herod's  palace  overlooking  the 
banqueting  hall.  Several  great  stone  columns  at  the 
right  are  bathed  by  the  red  light  from  within,  and  in 
its  glow  a  group  of  soldiers  is  seen  dimly  disposed  at 
the  head  and  around  the  foot  of  a  winding  staircase. 
Over  to  the  left  on  the  platform,  is  the  wall  of  a  well 
in  which  Jokanaan  is  confined ;  just  beyond  it  is  a  dark 
curtain,  with  the  moonlight,  which  Wilde  demanded, 
staring  on  the  scene  in  the  form  of  a  great  green  disc 
with  streaming  beams  shooting  out  from  it. 

At  Jokanaan's  first  speech,  "  After  me  shall  come 
another  mightier  than  I  ",  the  curtain  with  the  cubist 
moon  is  drawn  off  to  the  left,  and  in  its  stead  a  lighter 
stage  reveals  two  silver  streamers  of  unequal  length 
suspended  from  above  and  extending  nearly  to  the 
ground.  The  red  light,  originally  seen  only  at  the 
right,  now  spreads  over  the  terrace,  as  the  voice  of 

154 


"Salome"  in  Cubist  Vesture 


Salome  is  heard  approaching  from  the  banqueting  hall. 
By  quick,  sinuous  movements  and  angular,  passionate 
poses  the  action  is  carried  forward :  Salome  overcomes 
Narraboth's  misgivings;  Jokanaan  is  brought  up  from 
the  well,  and  Salome  hurls  herself  at  his  white  body,  his 
black  hair,  his  red  mouth.  By  every  sensuous  impli- 
cation of  Wilde's  impassioned  lines,  Alice  Koonen 
develops  her  conception  of  the  erotic  princess,  while 
opposite  her  Nikolai  Tseretelli  as  Jokanaan  depicts  the 
flaming  prophet  in  bold  outlines  but  with  finely  sympa- 
thetic shadings.  A  high  peak  is  reached  when  the 
young  Syrian,  Narraboth,  kills  himself  on  the  staircase 
and  flings  his  body  headlong  between  prophet  and  prin- 
cess. The  taut  rhythm  is  slackened  for  a  moment 
during  the  tenderly  beautiful  lines  of  the  page.  But 
Koonen  picks  it  up  again  without  a  break  and  the  con- 
trast is  multiplied  beyond  Wilde's  most  eager  dreams. 
Slowly  the  silver  streamers  of  the  moon  rise  out  of 
sight  as  the  prophet  descends  into  the  well  to  escape 
Salome's  insistent  and  ardent  and  ominous :  "  I  will 
kiss  thy  mouth,  Jokanaan !  "  The  light  grows  redder 
and  then  blends  into  a  portentous  yellow  as  Herod, 
squat  and  gross,  comes  out  on  the  terrace.  .  Ever  since 
Jokanaan  has  departed,  Salome  has  clung  infatuated 
to  the  cistern  wall,  holding  her  body  strained  against 
it.  The  white  of  her  arms  cuts  an  obtuse  angle  of 
yearning  passion  against  the  black  of  her  robe  and 
against  the  blue  of  the  curtain  behind  her.  And,  in- 
creasing the  passionate  tension  beyond  power  of  word, 
her  body  bends  far  to  one  side  along  the  line  of  one  of 

155 


The  Russian  Theatre 


the  arms.  Thus  she  remains  immovable  during  Her- 
od's ominous  vagaries  and  the  disputes  of  the  Jews, 
and  she  only  grows  more  tense  as  the  voice  of  Joka- 
naan  rises  from  below  in  denunciation  of  Herodias. 

Finally  she  comes  forward,  grim  and  quiet  and  de- 
termined, in  order  to  make  her  bargain  with  Herod  for 
the  dance  he  implores.  When  the  tetrarch  has  sworn 
to  give  her  whatever  she  asks,  her  attendants  slip  out, 
close  to  the  ground,  to  bring  her  the  perfumes  and  the 
veils.  The  light  turns  blood  red  again,  and  the  blue 
curtain  at  the  back  moves  off  to  the  left,  leaving  a  red 
in  its  place. 

Salome  now  enters,  languorously,  a  red  veil  gently 
floating  about  her  head.  Her  feet  move  inch  by  inch, 
her  body  hardly  at  all.  The  first  veil  descends  gradu- 
ally to  the  floor.  The  air  underneath  it  buoys  it  up  an 
instant  and  then  the  attendants  stealthily  draw  it  aside, 
as  the  second  veil,  red  as  well,  falls  from  Salome's 
shoulders.  Now  the  princess  increases  the  tempo  of 
the  dance,  pulls  a  green  veil  from  about  her  breast,  and 
sinks  suddenly  to  the  floor.  Slowly,  sinuously,  she 
rises  again  and  her  whole  body  loses  itself  in  the  dance. 
Again  and  again  she  faces  the  well,  rushing  at  it  with 
a  fury  and  a  swiftness  that  lash  the  beads  of  her  skirt 
against  its  sides,  and  then  turning  away  from  it  as 
violently.  She  tears  the  fourth  veil  from  her  breast 
and  the  rhythm  becomes  quieter  and  more  regular. 
A  slow,  free  dance  of  ecstatic  joy  now  carries  Sa- 
lome from  one  side  of  the  terrace  to  the  other,  first 
toward  Herod  and  then  toward  the  well.  The  dance 

156 


"Salome"  in  Cubist  Vesture 


becomes  wilder  and  faster,  around  and  around,  with 
the  beads  of  the  skirt  lashing  the  well  again  in  frenzy. 
Madly  up  and  down  she  rushes,  bending  her  body  in 
an  impassioned  arc  first  at  the  well  and  then  toward 
Herod.  From  her  waist  she  pulls  the  fifth  veil  as  if 
it  were  a  part  of  her  body.  And  then  as  she  hurls  her- 
self at  the  well  for  the  last  time  and  wrenches  the  sixth 
from  her  body,  the  lights  vanish  except  for  a  torch  or 
two  which  throw  the  tense  and  ardent  form  of  the  prin- 
cess into  sharp  silhouette.  Even  the  torches  now  are 
smothered,  as  the  music  of  the  dance  dies  away. 
When  the  lights  return,  Salome  is  fastening  about  her 
a  gold  and  black  robe  and  her  attendants  are  replacing 
her  headdress. 

The  passion  which  has  satisfied  Herod  and  quick- 
ened the  blood  of  every  one  in  the  audience  rests  now 
without  yielding  its  tension  while  Salome,  hands  above 
her  head,  demands  her  reward,  —  the  head  of  Joka- 
naan.  The  entire  court  takes  part  instinctively  in  the 
movement.  Quiet  now  but  with  throbbing  body,  Salome 
dominates  the  scene  even  more  profoundly  than  she 
did  in  the  dance,  while  Herod  offers  her  his  riches  and 
pleads  with  her  to  yield  her  terrible  purpose.  One 
feels  that  it  can  not  hold  thus  much  longer  when  the 
tetrarch  weakens  and  the  ring  from  his  finger  is  sent 
below  with  Naaman.  A  step  at  a  time  Salome  ad- 
vances toward  the  well.  Over  its  edge  she  peers,  im- 
patient, insistent,  restless,  feverish.  There  is  a  sicken- 
ing click  of  steel  against  stone,  but  she  misinterprets 
it  and  her  back  is  turned  when  Naaman's  black  arm 

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rises  above  the  curb  of  the  well  with  the  head  of  Joka- 
naan  under  a  red  veil  on  the  charger.  Wheeling  and 
facing  her  reward,  Salome  reaches  for  it,  kisses  it  and 
then  revolts  from  it,  placing  the  charger  on  the  edge 
of  the  well.  She  turns  toward  it  again,  though, 
crouching  close  to  the  ground  and  facing  it  with  her 
upturned  head  just  on  a  level  with  it.  Still  addressing 
it  in  Wilde's  maddeningly  sensuous  lines,  she  rises, 
holding  it  above  her  head  while  the  blood  from  it 
seems  to  drip  from  the  charger  on  her  face  and  into  her 
mouth.  Fascinated  by  it,  she  takes  it  slowly  down 
with  her  until  she  reaches  the  floor.  There  she  bends 
over  it,  still  speaking  to  it  and  moving  restlessly  about 
as  if  the  body  of  Jokanaan  were  still  there  with  its 
severed  head.  Again  she  rises,  holding  the  charger 
above  her  head,  and  the  picture  seems  even  more  ter- 
rible now  with  the  repetition,  for  there  is  something 
awesome  and  triumphant  in  her  attitude.  Still  again 
she  bends  low  with  the  head.  When  halfway  down, 
the  charger  drops  and  rolls  away  and  Salome  holds 
the  head  itself  close  to  her  body.  Kissing  it  again  and 
again,  she  covers  it  beneath  her  until  the  soldiers  at 
Herod's  command  move  forward  to  smother  her  under 
their  shields.  As  they  bury  the  mad  princess  from 
sight,  great  black  streamers  drop  from  above  and  blot 
the  scene  from  view  and  the  curtains  in  turn  close  them 
from  sight. 

The  fundamental  principles  of  cubism  are  translated 
into  the  language  of  theatrical  production  by  several 
interesting  means  in  the  Kamerny  interpretation  of 


Salome"  in  Cubist  Vesture 


"  Salome."  Cubism  as  a  manner  of  artistic  expression 
in  painting  has  to  do  with  two  dimensions  and  a  fixed 
result.  Cubist  sculpture  adds  a  third  dimension  and  in 
its  most  successful  instances  becomes  that  much  more 
interesting,  but  it  is  still  dealing  with  static  results. 
Cubism  in  the  theatre,  though,  must  adapt  itself  to  the 
essentially  plastic  nature  of  the  theatre,  and  I  was  not 
sure,  until  I  saw  "  Salome  "  at  the  Kamerny,  whether 
it  would  become  more  or  less  expressive  in  undergoing 
this  sea-change.  The  fact  that  it  readily  yields  to  the 
exigencies  of  the  stage  will  undoubtedly  give  it  a  new 
impetus  as  a  manner  of  expression  in  the  world  of  art. 

The  curtain  and  the  scenery,  of  course,  afford  the 
first  indications  that  the  production  is  cast  in  the  cub- 
ist mold.  In  the  former  especially  and  even  in  the 
latter,  Exter  is  at  home  in  her  media.  When  she 
reaches  the  costume  designs,  her  plates,  from  which  the 
accompanying  illustrations  were  taken,  were  also  fa- 
miliar ground.  The  realization  of  the  cubist  effect  in 
the  actual  costumes,  though,  must  have  been  a  far 
different  problem.  That  problem,  however,  was  solved 
satisfactorily  and  by  very  simple  means.  The  natural 
folds  of  the  garment  are  emphasized  and  compelled  to 
adapt  themselves  to  the  cubist  design  of  the  artist. 
Not  only  the  folds  themselves,  therefore,  but  their  nor- 
mal shadows,  cast  from  one  fold  to  the  other,  and  ab- 
normal shadings  painted  or  stamped  to  exaggerate  the 
shadows  —  all  these  means  bring  about  the  desired 
results  with  striking  force  and  simplicity. 

The  last  important  means,  of  course,  is  the  strict 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


rhythmic  control  of  the  human  body.  Strange  to  say, 
this  revolutionary  mode  of  expression,  reaching  out  to 
a  new  freedom,  brings  greater  results  in  controlling 
the  entire  scenic  picture  than  all  the  strictures  of  the 
old  stage  ever  thought  of  doing.  An  actor  could  slip 
out  of  the  picture  in  the  old  days  without  any  but  the 
keenest  eye  consciously  detecting  his  fault.  In  such  a 
production  as  that  of  "  Salome  ",  each  actor  is  so  viv- 
idly a  part  of  the  entire  picture  that  his  least  lapse  is 
readily  detected.  Much  more  interesting  than  this  re- 
sult, however,  are  the  endless  possibilities  revealed  in 
the  expression  of  emotion  by  this  new  and  exaggerated 
school  of  gesture.  True  to  the  nature  of  cubism,  it  is 
angular  and  vividly  picturesque  in  its  static  moments, 
—  moments  which  it  seems  constantly  to  be  trying  to 
attain,  only  to  release  them  and  work  toward  a  new 
moment  through  intermediary  movement.  This  in- 
termediary movement  in  "  Salome  "  is  often  sinuous 
and  graceful.  The  entrance  of  the  princess,  her  dance 
and  her  orgy  with  the  head  of  Jokanaan  prove  that. 
And  of  course  it  throws  the  static  islands  into  very 
strong  and  stirring  relief.  Probably  the  nearest  ex- 
ample America  has  seen  of  this  use  of  the  body  in  the 
drama  is  also  Russian,  —  the  bas-relief  effect  of  the 
dancers  in  "  The  Afternoon  of  a  Faun  ",  as  the  Diag- 
ileff  Ballet  presented  the  Debussy  interlude. 

"  Salome  "  at  the  Kamerny  is  not  a  one-role  play, 
except  as  Wilde  himself  made  it  so.  Nevertheless, 
Koonen's  picture  of  the  princess  is  such  a  masterpiece 
in  impassioned  action  that  she  towers  far  above  the 

160 


Yarovoff,  Moscow 

ALICE    GIORGIEVNA    KOONEN   AS   SALOME    IN   THE   CUBIST    PRO- 
DUCTION OF  OSCAR  WILDE'S  TRAGEDY  AT  THE  KAMERNY  THEA- 
TRE, MOSCOW 


"Salome"  in  Cubist  Vesture 


rest  in  the  cast.  Greatly  equipped  in  natural  ways,  she 
knows  either  by  rare  instinct  or  long  study  how  to  use 
her  gifts  most  effectively.  For  instance,  she  has  a 
small  body  as  lithe  as  a  cat's  which  she  can  send  mount- 
ing above  every  one  around  her,  much  as  Nazimova 
used  to  do  with  such  vivid  and  honest  effect  before  she 
had  forgotten  the  tutelage  of  Pavel  Orlienieff,  with 
whom  she  first  played  in  America.  Koonen's  voice 
also  is  soft  and  supple  and  seductive,  and  Wilde's  hot 
imagery  fairly  flames  from  her  lips  and  her  tongue. 
At  the  same  time  she  possesses  a  keen  sense  of  aristoc- 
racy, and  when  her  Salome  is  most  naked  in  the  speech 
of  her  tongue  and  of  her  body,  she  is  still  the  princess. 
I  think  it  is  this  austere  attitude  toward  the  passions 
which  saves  the  Kamerny  "  Salome  "  for  tragedy. 

Tseretelli  as  Jokanaan  and  Ivan  Arkadin  as  Herod, 
of  course,  share  the  chief  remaining  burden  of  the  play. 
Both  of  them  are  actors  of  imaginative  power  and  earn- 
est sincerity.  Tseretelli,  especially,  possesses  a  richly 
sympathetic  personality,  while  Arkadin's  greatest  gift 
seems  to  be  a  trenchant  mastery  of  the  grotesque.  The 
former,  however,  could  well  dispense  with  his  excess 
of  voice  at  times,  particularly  in  such  a  small  audito- 
rium as  that  of  the  Kamerny.  The  fault  tends  to  ob- 
literate the  shadings  which  his  characterization  would 
otherwise  have.  It  is  interesting  to  see  that  he  makes 
Jokanaan  a  highly  strung  human  being,  sensitive  to 
passion  as  are  other  men,  but  controlling  his  emotions 
and  consciously  turning  them  into  the  hard  mold  of 
the  ascetic  and  the  prophet.  His  Jokanaan  knows 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


what  Salome  could  be  to  him,  but  although  knowing, 
he  still  repels  her.  Arkadin's  Herod  would  be  more 
effective  if  the  actor  would  vary  his  rhythm  a  little,  for 
its  tense  and  ominous  obsession  becomes  monotonous  in 
the  course  of  the  play.  A  little  shading  here  and  there 
would  multiply  its  highly  picturesque  qualities. 

Only  one  or  two  others  make  individual  impressions. 
Boris  Ferdinandoff  as  the  young  Syrian  captain  of  the 
guard,  Narraboth,  cuts  a  clean  white  flame  through 
the  opening  scene  of  the  play.  Ratomsky  as  the  Cap- 
padocian,  and  others,  especially  those  who  play  the 
Jews,  achieve  striking  results  in  cubist  movement  and 
posture.  And  Mihail  Mordkin,  of  the  Ballet,  is  pres- 
ent impersonally  as  director  of  the  Dance  of  the  Veils. 

It  might  well  seem  that  "  Salome "  played  thus 
frankly  and  thus  sensuously  would  be  revolting  or  at 
least  emotionally  oversatiating.  But  there  is  some- 
thing about  the  honesty,  the  sincerity,  the  singleness 
of  purpose  of  producers  and  players  that  keeps  their 
interpretation  free  from  anything  but  the  most  aus- 
tere tragic  reaction.  They  have  achieved  tragedy  not 
by  restraint  but  by  self-effacing  unrestraint.  There  is 
no  audience  out  in  front  as  far  as  producers  and  play- 
ers are  concerned.  There  is  not  even  the  audience  of 
Herod's  court  on  the  stage.  Salome  is  dancing  only 
for  Herod  who  sees  and  for  Jokanaan  who  does  not  see. 
The  entire  performance  is  intensely  impersonal  and 
at  the  same  time  hotly  and  passionately  intimate,  —  a 
paradox  which  is  possible  only  with  artists  and  with 
audiences  who  view  their  art  honestly. 

162 


CHAPTER   XI 
A  BACCHANALE  AND  SOME  OTHERS  AT  THE  KAMERNY 

JUDGED  by  the  first  month's  repertory  at  the  Ka- 
merny,  the  exclusive  forte  of  this  theatre  was  the 
erotic.  After  the  cubist  curiosities  of  "  Salome  "  came 
the  Bacchic  abandon  of  "  Thamira  of  the  Cithern  "  and 
the  more  subdued  passions  of  another  tragedy,  "  The 
Azure  Carpet."  Perhaps  that  is  not  so  strange,  after 
all.  The  newer  forms  of  art  are  nothing  if  not  in- 
tense. And  passion  is  intense.  Therefore,  by  alge- 
braic axiom,  the  newer  forms  of  art  are  passionate. 
The  exotic  and  the  erotic  are  congenial  companions. 

By  the  holidays,  however,  the  repertory  began  to 
broaden  in  range  in  accordance  with  the  promise  of 
the  Kamerny's  previous  history.  "  King  Harlequin  ", 
Lotar's  tragi-comedy,  was  presented  in  extreme  cubist 
guise  in  the  spirit  of  the  commedia  dell'  arte,  —  as  dis- 
passionate and  objective  a  piece  of  make-believe  as  a 
Puritan  could  demand.  In  January,  Debussy's  pleas- 
ant little  pantomime,  "  The  Box  of  Toys  ",  was  ready, 
as  unconcerned  with  sex  and  passion  as  the  Tin  Soldiers 
in  its  quaint  cast  of  characters.  Paul  Claudel's 

9 

"  L'Echange  "  followed  toward  the  end  of  the  season, 
an  involved  quadrangle  of  the  affections,  but  symbolic 
and  mystic  and  austere  rather  than  fleshly.  Tairoff 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


knows  as  well  as  any  one  that  the  mental  and  emotional 
abstraction  which  he  is  seeking  in  the  theatre  is  a  mood 
of  many  hues,  and  his  taste  is  broad  enough  to  compre- 
hend most  of  the  spectrum  of  the  imagination. 

Although  less  personally  passionate  than  the  Wilde 
tragedy,  "  Thamira  of  the  Cithern  "  is  more  imperson- 
ally erotic  than  any  of  the  plays  in  the  Kamerny  reper- 
tory. In  fact,  this  three-act  drama  by  Innocent  Ann- 
yensky  is  a  Bacchanale  in  the  entire  Greek  sense  of  the 
word.  While  its  specific  theme  is  one  of  passion  —  the 
passion,  even,  of  a  mother  for  her  own  son  —  this 
theme  is  almost  overshadowed  and  enveloped  by  the 
warm  joy  in  the  body  which  hovers  close  in  the  fore- 
ground throughout  the  play  and  breaks  through  espe- 
cially in  the  choral  interludes.  I  know  of  no  country 
but  Russia  where  this  play  could  be  so  interpreted  to- 
day with  simplicity  and  evident  cleanliness  of  mind. 
The  ancient  Greek  and  the  modern  Russian  come  very 
close  to  each  other  at  times. 

The  scenic  background,  which  remains  unchanged 
through  the  play,  has  a  certain  austerity  and  dignity 
combined  with  a  passionate  symbolism  which  at  once 
links  the  cubist  formula  with  the  Greek  spirit.  The 
design  is  in  the  late  cubist  vein  of  the  artist,  Alexandra 
Exter,  who  created  the  scene  and  costumes  for  "  Sa- 
lome." A  bank  of  steps  in  the  centre  is  flanked  in  the 
foreground  on  the  right  by  another  tier  of  steps,  lead- 
ing up  to  the  door  of  the  musician,  Thamira,  and  on 
the  left  by  a  group  of  massive  cubist  rocks.  Further 
back  the  space  at  the  sides  is  taken  by  other  rock  masses 

164 


A  Bacchanale  and  Some  Others  at  the  Kamerny 

with  tall  round  tapering  pillars  rising  from  among  them 
to  the  sky. 

The  play  opens  in  the  gray  light  of  dawn,  with  a 
flute  quality  in  the  music  by  Forterre.  Ariope  has 
come  seeking  the  home  of  her  son,  Thamira,  whom  she 
abandoned  in  childhood  and  who  has  come  to  this  se- 
cluded spot  to  be  alone  with  his  music.  In  his  ab- 
sence, she  throws  herself  prostrate  on  the  doorstep. 
The  light  now  becomes  red  by  slow  degrees,  and  down 
the  steps  and  into  the  enclosure  a  chorus  of  Menads 
staggers.  A  slow,  tortuous  song  accompanies  their 
dance  which  takes  them  weaving,  half -reeling,  up  and 
over  and  down  the  steps  until  they  form  a  snake-like 
circle  reaching  from  the  top  of  the  steps  to  the  base. 
Bare  arms  linked  in  bare  arms  and  moving  restlessly 
but  slowly  in  waves  around  the  circle  and  back,  pro- 
duce a  vividly  sensuous  effect.  As  song  and  prayer 
near  an  end,  a  sense  of  relaxation  comes  over  them  all, 
and  the  circle  sinks  on  the  steps,  still  holding  hands. 
With  their  heads  to  the  sky,  eyes  half-closed,  and  the 
leader  in  the  centre,  a  hint  of  a  flower  design  is  held 
for  a  moment. 

But  only  for  a  moment.  For  they  have  discovered 
Ariope  and  scatter  in  fear.  Ariope  listens  to  the  min- 
gling sounds  of  Thamira's  music  in  the  distance  and  the 
voices  of  the  Menads  calling  to  one  another  from  be- 
hind the  rocks.  The  light  shifts  backward  and  for- 
ward from  a  major  to  a  minor  until  she  enters  the 
house,  and  then  it  sinks  into  the  gray-green  of  dawn 
for  an  instant,  only  to  color  up  into  a  high  yellow 

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at  the  entrance  of  Thamira.  He  has  seen  Ariope 
entering  his  home  and  he  is  crossed.  The  mountains 
are  no  place  for  a  woman.  When  she  emerges  and 
approaches  him,  he  repels  her,  even  when  she  proves 
her  parenthood.  He  lives  only  for  his  music.  No 
human  love  must  cross  his  ambition,  —  neither  the  love 
of  woman  nor  of  father  or  mother.  Rousing  his  in- 
terest by  telling  him  she  knows  a  way  to  bring  him 
close  to  the  gods  of  music,  she  grasps  him  as  only  a 
woman  can  hold  a  man.  On  the  instant,  he  under- 
stands, throws  her  off,  cries  that  mothers  can  not  love 
like  that,  and  with  a  leap  he  is  lost  among  the  rocks. 

The  second  act  begins  again  under  a  gray-green 
light.  The  Menads  from  among  the  rocks  on  each 
side  weave  in  to  the  left  until  they  gradually  half  en- 
circle the  prostrate  form  of  Ariope.  They  are  still  a 
single  quivering  group  by  the  joining  of  outstretched 
arms,  —  a  rope  of  arms,  sinuous  and  never  quite  still, 
plastic  and  passionate.  This  time,  although  they  are 
startled,  they  remain  and  talk  with  Ariope,  asking 
her  who  are  her  gods.  "  My  son  is  my  god !  "  she  re- 
plies. 

The  hum  of  violins  now  yields  to  an  insinuating  mu- 
sic and  Silenus  the  Satyr  prances  in  from  among  the 
rocks.  In  a  kind  of  animal  urge,  the  Menads  all  bend 
toward  him  in  welcome.  A  moment  later  two  pro- 
teges of  Silenus  hop  in  from  the  right,  —  the  Satyr  of 
the  Azure  Ribbon  and  the  Satyr  of  the  Rose  Ribbon. 
They  are  grotesque  children,  restless  and  angular,  quick 
and  animal-like  in  their  movements,  and  when  the 

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A  Bacchanale  and  Some  Others  at  the  Kamerny 

Menads  try  to  catch  them  they  gambol  out  of  reach 
among  the  rocks.  Ariope  begs  Silenus  to  help  her  ful- 
fill her  promise  to  Thamira  to  bring  him  close  to  the 
muses,  but  he  says  that  all  he  can  do  is  to  arrange  for 
a  contest  between  Thamira  and  the  goddess  of  music. 
Ariope  leaves,  filled  with  fear  that  Thamira  will  be 
won  away  by  the  goddess. 

The  light  heightens  into  yellow  as  Thamira  descends 
from  his  home  and  hears  from  Silenus  of  the  proposed 
contest  and  the  goddess.  "  If  I  win,  I  will  marry  her," 
the  musician  declares,  taking  his  harp  and  playing  it 
better  than  ever  before.  Ariope  has  been  listening  be- 
hind a  rock.  Emerging,  she  prays  to  the  other  gods 
that  Thamira  may  lose  the  contest.  As  she  prays, 
the  lights  at  the  front  are  extinguished  and  her  figure 
on  the  steps,  arms  high  above  her  head,  stands  clear 
cut  against  the  lighter  background.  As  she  finishes  her 
prayer,  the  lights  shift  frantically  from  one  color  to 
another  until  the  curtain  hides  the  scene  from  view. 

In  an  intense  red  light  the  third  act  opens,  with  the 
Satyrs,  almost  a  dozen  of  them,  popping  out  from  be- 
hind the  rocks  or  up  and  over  them.  Gasping  and 
grunting  and  squealing  in  animal  joy,  they  strike  mad 
postures  at  one  another,  with  extremely  active  legs  and 
dwarfed  arms.  In  the  distance  they  hear  music  and 
the  song  of  women,  and  each  of  them  tastes  it  in  ad- 
vance through  his  whole  body.  Suddenly  one  Menad 
leaps  over  a  rock  and  a  Satyr  hops  over  her  and  drags 
her  around  while  others  lay  hold  of  her.  Then  she 
seizes  cymbals  and  the  two  engage  in  a  wild  reel,  dis- 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


appearing  among  the  rocks.  Another  Menad  is  lifted 
from  the  ground  and  hurried  off  by  the  rest.  There 
is  an  interval,  and  then  one  by  one  the  Satyrs  stagger 
back,  sated  and  exhausted.  One  by  one,  too,  they  sink 
weary  and  spent  on  the  rocks  until  they  form  a  worm- 
like  mass  with  arms  and  legs  intermingled. 

As  Ariope  returns,  the  Satyrs  awake  and  scatter 
behind  the  rocks  with  just  a  head  appearing  here  and 
there.  Thamira,  also,  returns  and  tells  his  mother 
that  he  has  given  up  the  contest,  for  he  realizes  that 
even  if  he  won  he  could  not  marry  the  goddess  and  at 
the  same  time  devote  his  whole  life  to  his  art.  The 
Satyrs  tell  him  that  there  are  other  joys  in  life  and 
that  one  man  must  love  one  woman. 

The  musician  now  addresses  his  harp  and  tries  to 
play  it.  But  his  gift  is  gone!  In  dismay,  he  hands  it 
to  Silenus,  thinking  that  something  is  wrong  with  the 
instrument.  But  Silenus  brings  perfect  harmonies 
from  it.  Thamira  turns  on  his  mother,  suspecting  her 
of  interfering  with  his  gift,  but  from  the  left  in  a 
ghostly  light  the  Shade  of  his  father  Philemon  pro- 
nounces sentence  on  mother  and  son.  In  addition  to 
losing  his  gift  of  music,  Thamira  will  become  blind  as 
punishment  for  his  too  great  ambition,  while  Ariope 
will  be  turned  into  a  bird  for  loving  her  son  as  no 
mother  should  love.  Around  the  Ghost  the  Satyrs 
dance,  approaching  it  with  impatient  animal  move- 
ments, but  it  is  heedless  of  them  and  retires  slowly, 
silently,  behind  the  great  rock  at  the  left.  Thamira, 
who  has  gone  off  in  despair,  now  returns  sightless,  —  a 

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A  Bacchanale  and  Some  Others  at  the  Kamerny 

pitiable  figure.  The  voice  of  Ariope  as  a  bird  reas- 
sures him  and  tells  him  she  and  Philemon  will  be  with 
him  always;  a  ghostly  hand  reaches  out  from  behind 
the  rock  to  prove  that  its  presence  is  near;  and  the  old 
slave  comes  out  to  guide  the  stricken  artist  to  his 
lonely  home. 

"  Thamira  "  is  not  a  great  play  and  if  conventionally 
interpreted  it  would  probably  drag  interminably.  The 
drama  of  its  story  is  meagre  and  its  lines  are  verbose. 
But  under  the  treatment  accorded  it  at  the  Kamerny, 
it  takes  on  a  peculiar  interest,  revealing  drama  of  great 
sensuous  power  in  its  choral  interludes  and  keeping 
the  senses  all  alert  with  the  plastic  use  of  the  human 
body  and  the  lighting  and  the  music. 

Forterre's  music  has  an  insinuating,  sensuous  color- 
ing and  is  written  in  the  curious  middle  mood  between 
animal  joy  and  human  sophistication.  The  acting, 
too,  partakes  of  this  fantastic  cross  which  the  Greeks 
discovered  and  around  which  they  built  the  best  of 
their  art.  I  know  of  nothing  on  the  modern  stage 
more  truly  Bacchic,  —  not  even  the  glorious  abandon 
of  the  Glazunoff  Bacchanale  as  Pavlova  and  Mordkin 
danced  it.  It  is  the  chorus  which  builds  the  success 
of  "  Thamira  of  the  Cithern."  Working  in  a  close  har- 
mony but  with  great  individual  freedom,  it  creates  a 
constantly  changing  picture  as  varied  but  as  continuous 
as  the  restless  surface  of  the  sea.  No  one  in  America 
except  Maurice  Browne  with  his  Greek  chorus  at  the 
Chicago  Little  Theatre  has  understood  so  well  the  su- 
preme importance  of  this  function  of  the  drama. 

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"The  Azure  Carpet",  a  study  in  passion  in  a  sub- 
dued minor  key,  is  the  work  of  Liuboff  Stolitsa,  one  of 
the  comparatively  few  Russian  women  playwrights. 
It  is  written  in  verse  in  three  acts  and  tells  the  story  of 
the  Khan  Uzbek  and  his  tragic  love  for  the  beggar 
girl,  Mnever.  My  respect  for  it  grew  with  acquaint- 
ance. The  first  time  I  saw  it  was  the  evening  after  the 
vivid  "  Salome  ",  and  I  had  the  feeling  that  "  The 
Azure  Carpet  "  had  been  rained  on  and  the  colors  had 
faded  and  run  together.  Later,  however,  I  found  that 
I  had  seen  Florence  after  Venice,  and  Florence  had  its 
own  charm,  less  obtrusive  and  more  insinuating. 

The  mood  of  "  The  Azure  Carpet "  is  to  be  found 
in  Araby  or  Persia  or  the  Caucasus  somewhere  be- 
tween day  and  night,  either  at  the  twilight  or  the  dawn 
of  passion.  "  Salome  ",  of  course,  is  midnight  under 
an  erotic  moon.  The  mad  curtains  of  the  Kamerny 
part  to  reveal  a  gossamer  landscape  of  the  dreamy 
East,  painted  in  the  mild  hues  of  early  dawn  by  the 
artist,  Avagim  Miganadzhian.  Snow-capped  moun- 
tains, with  strange  trees  bent  into  tortuous  shape  by 
an  unseen  wind  and  ominous  of  tragedy,  form  the  back- 
ground. From  that  point  forward,  successive  cur- 
tains with  designs  in  softened  Oriental  colors  lead  the 
eye  outward  to  a  fountain  in  the  centre  of  the  Khan's 
garden  and  to  the  wall  which  bounds  it  on  the  left. 
The  scene  is  like  nothing  so  much  as  the  picturesque 
garden  scene  designed  by  the  Toensfeldts  for  the  first 
act  of  Lady  Gregory's  "  The  Golden  Apple  "  at  the 
St.  Louis  Little  Playhouse  in  1917. 

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A  Bacchanale  and  Some  Others  at  the  Kamerny 

A  plaintive  processional,  composed  by  Forterre, 
opens  the  play,  and  the  women  of  Uzbek's  harem  file 
in  and  kneel  before  the  fountain  shrine.  Their  quar- 
rels and  jealousies  reveal  the  restraint  of  the  life  they 
lead.  A  moment  after  they  are  gone,  the  full-voiced 
song  of  one  of  plebeian  birth  sweeps  in  on  the  wind 
from  outside  the  garden.  There  is  something  primitive, 
common,  and  yet  independent  in  its  tones  that  hardly 
prepares  one  for  the  beauty  of  the  beggar  girl.  On  a 
perch  on  the  wall  with  her  flowers,  she  muses  frankly 
on  the  freedom  of  her  life  and  her  satisfaction  with 
it  all. 

Meanwhile,  the  Khan  Uzbek  has  entered  his  garden. 
He  stands  listening  to  her  rambling  philosophy  but 
soon  approaches  her.  Although  he  tells  her  who  he  is, 
she  shrinks  away.  Finally,  though,  she  yields  after 
Uzbek  has  promised  that  she  will  be  as  free  as  the 
winds  if  she  will  become  his  wife.  With  her  he  now 
sits  in  state  while  the  royal  counsellors  discuss  the  dis- 
position of  the  beggar  girl.  One  urges  Uzbek  to  im- 
molate her  on  the  stake,  another  to  cut  off  her  hands, 
but  the  chief  counsellor  perceives  the  Khan's  affection 
for  the  girl  and  shrewdly  urges  him  to  accept  her  as  a 
wife. 

An  Oriental  bazaar,  rich  and  sensuous  in  color  and 
costume,  with  the  booths  set  hot  and  close  together, 
is  the  scene  of  the  second  act.  An  insinuating  rhythm 
pervades  the  seductive  singsong  of  the  beggars  and  the 
merchants  in  the  bazaar,  and  above  its  cadence  the 
counsellors  tell  of  the  hanging  gardens  which  the  Khan 

171 


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is  building  at  Mnever's  request  and  the  wonderful 
azure  carpet  on  which  she  will  dance.  A  slave  dealer 
with  a  young  and  handsome  Christian  captive,  Gyaur, 
enters  the  market  place,  and  soon  afterwards  Mnever 
herself  comes  to  the  bazaar.  Instantly,  she  is  at- 
tracted to  the  youth,  buys  him  and  with  him  enters  one 
of  the  booths.  She  is  fascinated  with  him  because  of 
the  freedom  of  his  spirit  in  spite  of  the  bondage  of  his 
body.  Discovery  follows  close  upon  her,  however,  for 
the  eunuch  and  the  heralds  and  then  the  wives  and 
finally  the  Khan  himself  trace  her  to  the  booth.  Alone 
with  Uzbek,  she  insists  that  Mahomet  has  decreed 
kindness  for  every  one,  asks  for  mercy,  protests  her 
love  for  him  and  begs  passionately  for  him  to  kiss  her, 
defying  the  Mahometan  conventions.  She  has  to  be 
content,  though,  with  a  kiss  on  the  hand  from  the  Khan. 
A  series  of  curtains  in  softly  blending  colors  leads 
outward  to  the  proscenium  at  the  beginning  of  the  third 
act  Gyaur  tells  Mnever  he  must  leave,  but  she  pre- 
vails upon  him  to  remain  for  the  disclosure  of  the 
azure  carpet  that  evening.  With  auspicious  ceremo- 
nies the  hanging  gardens  are  revealed,  but  Mnever  has 
lost  her  interest  in  the  azure  carpet.  Urged  by  the 
Khan,  she  mounts  the  terrace,  but  calls  for  Gyaur  to 
come  and  play  for  her.  Suddenly,  she  breaks  from  her 
dance  and  embraces  Gyaur,  and  on  the  instant  an  arrow 
from  the  bow  of  one  of  the  heralds  pierces  the  slave's 
heart.  Still,  Mnever  clings  to  him  passionately,  cry- 
ing out  that  the  kisses  of  a  youth  are  better  than  those 
of  an  old  man  even  though  the  youth  be  dead.  The 

172 


A  Bacchanale  and  Some  Others  at  the  Kamerny 

herald  had  meant  to  strike  down  Mnever  instead  of 
Gyaur,  but  Uzbek  completes  the  tragedy,  for  he  rushes 
up  on  the  terrace,  plunges  a  knife  into  the  beggar  girl's 
breast  and  drinks  a  cup  of  poison  to  follow  her  into 
the  Mahometan  paradise. 

Koonen  overtops  the  rest  in  her  acting  of  the  role 
of  Mnever.  The  most  interesting  feature  of  her  per- 
formance is  the  note  of  commonness,  of  plebeian  birth, 
which  pervades  her  whole  conception.  As  Salome,  she 
is  the  high-born  princess.  Refinement  is  instinct  in 
every  movement  of  her  body,  —  a  passionate,  sensuous 
refinement,  it  is  true,  but  a  passion  and  a  sensuousness 
subtly  expressed.  As  Mnever,  subtlety  gives  way  to 
frankness,  and  the  comparison  affords  a  striking  in- 
sight into  the  emotional  and  psychological  range  of  this 
fascinating  player. 

"  King  Harlequin  "  in  itself  affords  Tairoff  some  ex- 
cuse for  interpreting  it  as  a  cubist  commedia  dell'  arte, 
for  the  play-within-a-play  characters  of  Harlequin  and 
his  comrades  are  figures  from  such  an  environment. 
The  extension  of  their  mood  to  all  the  other  personages 
of  the  drama,  however,  is  a  gratuity  on  the  part  of  the 
producer  whose  boldness  is  rewarded  by  the  transfor- 
mation of  a  rather  ordinary  sentimental  tale  into  an  in- 
genious bit  of  knowing  gesture.  I  saw  the  same  play 
under  the  title,  "  The  Fool  on  the  Throne  ",  at  the 
Theatre  Nezlobina,  one  of  the  less  distinctive  and  less 
important  of  Moscow's  many  playhouses,  and  there  as 
a  conventional,  realistic  production  it  revealed  all  its 
inherent  dullness.  At  the  Kamerny,  however,  sophis- 

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tication  has  discounted  sentimentality  and  has  all  but 
obliterated  it  by  subordinating  it  to  the  amiable  artifi- 
cialities of  the  harlequinade.  In  the  original,  the  fig- 
ures of  the  Queen  and  the  Princes  and  all  the  courtiers 
and  ministers  of  state  are  semi-pasteboard.  Tairoff 
revivifies  them  by  making  them  all  pasteboard. 

A  rigidly  cubist  curtain  follows  the  freer  cubism  of 
the  house  curtain  and  prepares  the  eye  for  the  first  set- 
ting, a  throne  room  with  an  uncomfortably  stiff  and 
royal  chair  planted  on  a  huge  blue  block  to  which  steps 
lead  up  between  over-solemn  pillars  of  white.  The 
King  is  near  unto  death  and  Queen  Gertrude  has  re- 
turned from  monastic  exile  only  to  find  the  Genoese, 
her  own  people,  as  enemies  at  the  gates  and  her  son 
Boemund  reckless  of  his  responsibilities  and  consorting 
with  Harlequin  and  his  careless  crew.  The  clown, 
though,  is  jealous  of  the  Prince,  for  they  both  love 
the  gentle  Columbine.  Sometimes,  Harlequin  says  to 
her,  he  feels  like  a  king  himself  and  sometimes  like  the 
lowest  mortal  in  the  world.  Of  a  sudden,  jealousy 
flames  into  blows  and  in  the  struggle  Harlequin  throws 
Boemund  to  his  death  over  a  cliff  back  of  the  throne. 
Descending  out  of  sight,  he  reappears  in  all  the  habili- 
ments of  the  Prince.  He,  the  actor,  the  clown,  will 
play  the  role  of  Prince.  He  will  play  the  role  of  King, 
too,  for  after  a  brief  interval  the  sombre  percussion  of 
the  death  march  tells  of  the  passing  of  the  King. 

Now  that  Harlequin  is  gone,  Columbine  knows  that 
she  loved  him.  The  whole  band  is  lost  without  its 
leader.  Pantaloon,  disconsolate,  comes  to  the  King 

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A  Bacchanale  and  Some  Others  at  the  Kamerny 

for  comfort.  Did  he  love  Harlequin  ?  asks  the  pretend- 
ing King.  Well,  he  hopes  Pantaloon  will  like  the  King 
none  the  less  for  killing  Harlequin.  Against  the  wish 
of  the  despondent  clown,  the  King  takes  him  as  a  ser- 
vant, makes  him  swear  fealty  and  secrecy,  then  seizes 
him  and  tells  him  the  truth.  The  people  are  eager  to 
crown  their  new  King,  and  so  Harlequin  is  brought 
before  Queen  Gertrude.  Blind  though  she  is,  she 
knows  that  Harlequin  is  not  her  son,  but  she  also  knows 
that  he  has  saved  the  country  from  disaster  and,  by  his 
leniency,  her  own  people  from  destruction.  And  so 
she  crowns  him  while  the  crowd  hails  him  King. 

The  business  of  being  a  king  is  irksome.  Peasants 
come,  begging  restoration  of  what  they  lost  in  the  war. 
"  But  you  need  everything  for  your  palace  and  your 
throne,"  insists  Tancred,  uncle  and  minister  of  state. 
"  These  are  my  throne,"  Harlequin  replies,  pointing  to 
the  peasants.  The  King  refuses,  too,  to  sign  any  de- 
crees of  execution.  "  Not  I  but  the  power  of  my  name 
is  King,"  says  Harlequin.  Tancred  already  suspects 
the  truth  and  remarks  that  the  King  is  playing  very 
well  his  part.  Harlequin  sends  for  Columbine,  but  she 
is  inconsolable  and  she  agrees  to  come  to  him  the  fol- 
lowing night,  only  to  kill  him.  When  she  confides  her 
plan  to  Pantaloon,  he  is  in  a  quandary  but  his  tongue  is 
tied.  Harlequin  sends  for  the  players  to  appear  before 
him  and  the  court.  The  old  clown  returns  to  his  mas- 
ter who  clings  to  him  and  confesses  it  is  very  hard  to 
reign.  He  will  play  his  old  role,  says  the  King,  and 
he  will  play  it  well ! 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


The  first  three  acts  have  run  their  course  in  almost 
the  same  setting.  For  the  fourth,  there  is  a  black  back- 
ground. Strange  angular  lanterns  swing  from  the  sky. 
The  throne  and  the  pillars  surrounding  it  are  all  awry. 
The  actors  set  their  stage  before  the  assembled  court 
and  announce  their  harlequinade.  Just  as  the  play  is 
about  to  begin,  with  Scapine  as  partner  for  the  dis- 
traught Columbine,  Harlequin  in  his  own  guise  and 
costume  leaps  down  from  behind  the  throne,  chases 
the  presumptuous  Scapine  from  the  scene  and  plunges 
into  an  improvised  drama  in  which  he  tells  how  he 
killed  the  King  and  played  his  role.  It  is  better  to  be 
a  good  Harlequin,  though,  than  a  bad  king,  so  he  and 
Columbine  are  married,  bid  the  astounded  courtiers 
farewell  and  depart  in  the  boat  Columbine  had  pre- 
pared for  her  own  escape  before  the  royal  audience 
realizes  that  this  is  truth  and  not  a  drama  they  have 
been  watching. 

The  settings  in  "  King  Harlequin "  are  severely 
simple,  the  costumes  antic  in  their  grotesquerie.  Both 
are  the  work  of  Ferdinandoff,  the  young  man  whose 
playing  as  Narraboth  is  so  impressive  in  the  first  scene 
of  "  Salome."  He  is  extremely  reticent,  knowing  only 
his  own  language  and  reserved  in  the  use  of  that,  but 
he  is  fine  in  spirit  and  imagination.  Thus  far  as  de- 
signer he  is  a  little  stiff  in  his  simplicity,  but  he  is 
likely  to  do  much  better  work  for  more  worthy  mate- 
rial. None  of  all  his  good-natured  whimsies  in  this 
production  is  quite  so  amusing  or  quite  so  characteris- 
tic as  Pantaloon's  headgear  —  a  kind  of  cross  between 

176 


A  Bacchanale  and  Some  Others  at  the  Kamerny 

a  college  mortar  board  and  Happy  Hooligan's  tin  can. 
But  perhaps  I  got  these  implications  where  a  Russian 
wouldn't ! 

Those  in  Moscow  who  are  most  irritated  by  the 
Kamerny's  unconventionality  are  ready  to  admit  and 
even  to  praise  the  vesture  which  Tairoff,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  Forterre  in  the  orchestration,  of  Ferdinand- 
off  in  the  designs  and  of  Mordkin  in  the  dances,  has 
given  to  Claude  Debussy's  jolly  pantomime,  "La  Boite 
a  Joujoux  "  or  "  The  Box  of  Toys."  "  To  dress  seri- 
ous drama  in  garments  men  never  wore  and  never  will 
wear  is  one  thing  and  a  very  exasperating  thing  at 
that,"  they  say,  "  but  it  is  all  very  well  to  deck  out  thus 
a  children's  fantasy."  "  The  Box  of  Toys  ",  as  pro- 
duced at  the  Kamerny,  is  a  kind  of  Franco-Russian 
Mother  Goose.  It  is,  indeed,  sugar  cakes  for  the 
nursery  age  and  the  Kamerny  invariably  presents  it 
at  matinees.  But,  like  "  The  Blue  Bird  ",  which  is  al- 
ways an  afternoon  host  at  the  Art  Theatre,  it  has 
subtler  pleasures  for  grown-up  children. 

"The  Box  of  Toys"  hasn't  as  much  plot  as  a 
musical  comedy.  The  Dolls  and  the  Soldiers  and 
the  Shepherds  and  Polichinelle  and  Harlequin  and  the 
Elephant  and  all  the  rest  simply  come  to  life,  examine 
each  other  curiously  and  with  mild  satisfaction  and 
then  take  their  places  once  more  in  the  booth  and  the 
box  from  which  they  first  emerged.  There  is  a  hint 
of  a  love  story  between  the  most  beautiful  doll  and 
Polichinelle  —  the  kind  of  love  story  with  its  attend- 
ant jealousies  which  a  child  can  comprehend  —  but  that 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


is  all.     The  rest  is  simply  naive  incident  and  frolic 
and  gesture. 

The  Kamerny's  curtain  is  too  eccentric  to  introduce 
the  innocence  of  "  The  Box  of  Toys  ",  and  so  a  special 
curtain  is  provided,  all  dotted  over  with  funny  little 
people,  one  of  them  standing  on  his  head  and  the  rest 
trotting  around  among  vari-colored  blocks.  When  it 
is  drawn  up,  a  poster  with  Debussy's  legend  for  his 
pantomime  is  revealed : 

La  Boite  d  Joujoux 

Les  boites  a  joujoux  sont  dcs  sortes  de  ville  dans  les- 
quelles  les  jouets  invent  comme  des  personnes.  Ou 
bien  les  miles  ne  sont  peut-etre  que  des  boites  a  joujoux 
dans  lesquelles  les  personnes  vivent  comme  des  jouets. 

A  modified  cubism  is  the  manner  in  which  the  panto- 
mime is  presented,  a  cubism  which  takes  its  cue  from 
the  nursery  simplicity  of  proper  toys, —  the  realism  of 
toyland,  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  One  of  the  most  in- 
gratiating features  of  the  Kamerny's  production  is  the 
open-eyed  wonder  which  the  players  of  the  toys  main- 
tain throughout.  Another  deft  touch  is  that  which 
directs  that  arms  and  legs  shall  be  slightly  stiff  and 
awkward.  After  all,  how  do  you  suppose  a  toy  would 
know  the  use  of  these  instruments  right  at  first  if  he 
came  to  life!  And  so  when  Polichinelle  or  one  of  the 
Soldiers  embraces  the  Doll,  his  elbows  press  her  arms 
lightly  and  his  hands  protrude  behind  her.  When  they 
kiss,  their  lips  come  ever  so  close  but  they  do  not  touch. 
The  mysteries  of  life  are  mastered  but  slowly  1 

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A  Bacchanale  and  Some  Others  at  the  Kamerny 

It  is  a  great  pity  that  Tairoff  has  felt  bound  by  the 
composer's  directions  in  all  their  details,  for  the  pro- 
duction thus  inherits  one  of  the  worst  faults  of  French 
pantomime,  —  the  use  from  time  to  time  of  audible 
sounds  characteristic  of  the  action,  such  as  the  squeak- 
ing of  the  Doll  when  the  Soldier  bends  her  over,  or  the 
sharp  clapping  of  the  hands  of  the  little  children  dollies. 
The  fault  is  on  a  par  with  the  disturbing  smacking  of 
the  lips  of  the  excellent  actor  of  the  father  in  "  Pierrot 
the  Prodigal  "  in  New  York  a  few  seasons  ago.  Pan- 
tomime is  panto-mime  —  "  all-imitation  "  —  and  to  in- 
ject in  it  even  the  slightest  representative  sounds  shat- 
ters the  mood  in  which  it  is  conceived. 

Such  a  definite  and  singular  aim  as  the  Kamerny  has 
set  for  itself  naturally  excludes  from  its  use  many 
plays  which  would  be  hopelessly  distorted  if  poured  in 
its  mold.  Tchehoff,  for  instance,  and  the  realistic 
dramas  of  Gorky  are  inconceivable  on  the  Kamerny 

/ 

stage.  Claudel's  "  L'Echange  " ,  however,  should  have 
yielded  to  interpretation  by  Tairoff,  but  the  Kamerny, 
fortunately  for  its  future  service  to  the  Russian  stage, 
is  still  in  the  experimental  period,  and  mistakes,  if  they 
are  honest,  can  not  harm  it.  Ultimately,  of  course, 
it  will  find  its  best  service  in  interpreting  plays  written 
especially  for  its  use. 


CHAPTER    XII 
HERE  AND  THERE  IN  Moscow  THEATRES 

ONE  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  experimental 
stages  in  Moscow  is  the  Kommissarzhevskaya  Memo- 
rial Theatre,  directed  by  Fyodor  Kommissarzhevsky 
and  named  in  honor  of  his  sister  who,  though  of 
Polish  blood,  was  acknowledged  for  years  before  her 
death  in  1910  as  Russia's  greatest  actress.  It  was  not 
without  a  feeling  of  chagrin  that  I  first  visited  this 
theatre,  for  as  an  American  I  could  not  forget  how  in 
1908  New  York  failed  to  wake  up  in  time  to  the  pres- 
ence of  genius  in  its  midst  and  how  Vera  Kommissar- 
zhevskaya returned  heartbroken  to  her  native  land, 
thinking  that  America  had  rejected  her.  Of  course,  it 
was  simply  another  case  of  America's  tardy  apprecia- 
tion of  unexpected,  unheralded  and  unexplained  great- 
ness, but  the  memory  embarrassed  me  just  the  same. 
The  brother  of  the  actress  and  the  director  of  the 
theatre,  however,  soon  put  me  at  rest,  for  he  was  will- 
ing to  forget  the  past  and  anxious  to  assist  me  in  the 
task  of  telling  America  of  his  experiments  and  his 
achievements. 

It  was  early  in  December,  soon  after  the  theatres 
reopened,  succeeding  the  November  Revolution,  that 
I  saw  the  first  of  Kommissarzhevsky's  repertory.  I 

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Here  and  There  in  Moscow  Theatres 

began  on  familiar  ground,  choosing  for  the  first  visit 
a  dramatized  version  of  Dickens'  "  A  Christmas 
Carol."  I  was  pleased  and  my  curiosity  was  aroused, 
and  soon  afterwards  I  saw  Sologub's  "  Vanka  the  But- 
ler and  Page  Jean."  Here  was  Russian  comedy  done 
with  zest  and  richness  of  flavor  and  freshness  of 
touch.  At  later  intervals  I  saw  "  Pan  ",  by  Charles 
van  Lerberghe,  and  was  disappointed;  then  Aristoph- 
anes' "  Lysistrata  ",  and  I  began  to  lose  interest.  But 
shortly  before  my  departure,  the  theatre  regained  its 
original  place  in  my  regard  through  a  singularly  in- 
cisive dramatization  of  one  of  Dostoievsky's  short 
stories,  "  A  Bad  Anecdote."  The  regisseur  evidently 
had  a  gift  for  interpreting  human  character  with  sym- 
pathy and  simplicity. 

The  Kommissarzhevskaya  Memorial  Theatre  was 
founded  in  Moscow  by  the  brother  of  the  actress  in 
1914.  It  was  the  direct  outgrowth  of  the  school  of 
acting  and  stagecraft  which  he  opened  in  Moscow  in 
1910.  "  The  Free  School  of  Scenic  Art "  he  called 
it,  and  in  the  words  of  his  prospectus  he  set  out  "  to 
find  with  his  pupils  and  his  artistic  friends  the  new 
means  of  artistic  and  scenic  interpretation  for  new 
authors,  Russian  and  foreign,  and  for  the  classic 
authors.  At  the  school  and  the  theatre  of  Kommis- 
sarzhevsky,  the  naturalistic  ideas  of  the  theatre  of 
Stanislavsky  will  be  completely  unknown.  It  is  to  be 
a  theatre  purely  esthetic  and  theatrical." 

For  four  years,  then,  the  director  conducted  his 
school  and  prepared  his  future  actors  for  their  tasks. 

181 


The  Russian  Theatre 


In  the  fourth  season  of  the  theatre  I  saw  the  school 
running  side  by  side  with  it,  providing  actors  from  its 
advanced  ranks  for  the  smaller  roles  on  the  stage  of 
the  theatre.  It  is  the  director's  policy  to  advance  his 
pupils  as  rapidly  as  they  display  progress  and  there  is, 
therefore,  an  intensity  and  freshness  and  rivalry  to  be 
seen  in  many  of  the  productions  due  to  the  effort  of 
these  students  to  justify  their  advancement.  Devel- 
opment of  diction  and  voice,  with  instruction  in  sing- 
ing to  assist  the  speaking  voice;  development  of  the 
body  through  plastic  and  rhythmic  exercises;  study  of 
the  theory  of  theatrical  art;  wide  acquaintanceship 
with  the  literature  of  the  theatre  in  all  countries; 
improvisation  on  the  stage  for  the  development  of 
emotional  technique  and  imagination  and  theatrical 
presence  of  mind;  and  finally  experience  on  the  stage 
of  the  theatre  —  these  make  up  the  chief  points  in  the 
course  of  instruction  at  the  school. 

At  his  theatre,  Kommissarzhevsky  has  had  this  prin- 
ciple for  his  mise  en  scene:  to  achieve  a  harmony  be- 
tween the  interpretation  of  the  actors,  the  ensemble, 
the  forms  and  the  colors  of  the  scenery  and  costumes, 
the  music  and  the  light  —  the  harmony  between  all 
these  and  the  idea  and  the  style  of  the  dramatic 
author.  With  this  as  the  guiding  principle,  fifteen 
productions  with  a  total  of  seventeen  plays  were  made 
in  the  first  four  seasons.  "  Dmitry  Donskoi  ",  a  trag- 
edy by  Ozyoroff,  opened  the  house  in  the  fall  of  1914. 
A  double  bill  followed,  consisting  of  Moliere's  "  The 
Sicilian  "  and  Ostrovsky's  "  A  Family  Picture,"  Then 

18* 


Here  and  There  in  Moscow  Theatres 

came  the  dramatization  from  Dickens  —  "A  Christ- 
mas Carol  "  —  which  is  still  a  faithful  member  of  the 
repertory,  and  the  fifteenth-century  morality,  "  Every- 
man." The  first  season  was  brought  to  a  close  with 
the  dramatization  from  Dostoievsky's  "  A  Bad  Anec- 
dote." 

The  second  season  opened  with  "  Night  Hops  ",  a 
play  by  a  modern  Russian  writer,  Fyodor  Sologub. 
"  The  Choice  of  a  Fiancee  ",  by  Hoffman ;  "  May 
Night ",  by  Gogol ;  and  "  The  Cursed  Prince  "  by 
Remizoff,  another  contemporary  Russian  playwright, 
made  up  the  new  productions  of  the  year  1915-1916. 

Sologub  also  opened  the  third  season  with  his  com- 
edy, "  Vanka  the  Butler."  Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal's 
"Elektra"  followed,  and  then  Balzac's  "  L' Amour 
sous  le  Masque."  Another  double  bill  rounded  out  the 
1916-1917  season:  "  The  Comedy  of  Alexei,  or  God's 
Man",  by  a  modern  Russian,  Kuzmin;  and  Leonid 
AndreiefFs  "  Requiem."  In  the  fourth  season  the 
only  new  productions  were  van  Lerberghe's  "  Pan  " 
and  "  Lysistrata  "  of  Aristophanes.  The  theatre  has 
in  preparation  Hauptmann's  "  Hannele  " ;  Wedekind's 
"  The  Box  of  Pandora  " ;  and  Voltaire's  "  The  Queen." 

The  Kommissarzhevskaya  Memorial  Theatre  is  a 
theatre  in  miniature  but  it  does  not  give  the  impres- 
sion of  being  cramped.  The  auditorium,  the  stage 
and  all  the  various  departments  of  the  institution  ex- 
cept the  school,  which  is  across  the  street  in  another 
building,  are  comprised  in  the  rambling  rooms  of  a 
large  reconstructed  dwelling  house.  The  hall  seats  only 


The  Russian  Theatre 


one  hundred  and  fifty  spectators  and  the  seats  rise  at 
a  comfortable  angle.  On  the  stage  there  is  barely  pas- 
sageway at  each  side,  often  not  that  at  the  back  and 
no  loft  at  all.  Much  more  generous  rooms  open  out 
to  the  rear  and  at  the  sides  for  the  actors,  the  painting 
of  the  scenery,  etc.  But  it  is  impossible,  without  tun- 
nelling ancient  Russian  masonry  almost  as  formidable 
as  the  walls  of  Kenilworth  castle,  to  throw  them  into 
the  stage  area. 

Three  devices  assist  Kommissarzhevsky  to  achieve 
interesting  results  in  this  bandbox.  One  of  them  is 
his  excellent  lighting  system  and  his  knowledge  of  how 
to  use  light  eloquently.  There  is  barely  space  along 
the  ceiling  of  the  room  which  has  been  converted  into 
a  stage  for  the  rows  of  overhead  lights.  Footlights 
are  absent  and  the  actor  approaching  the  front  of  the 
stage  is  kept  in  normal  aspect  by  a  concealed  bank  of 
lights  just  in  front  of  the  proscenium  top,  tilted  at  an 
angle  to  shut  off  bothersome  shadows.  Then  in  almost 
all  of  the  productions  which  I  saw  at  the  theatre,  an 
extremely  fine-meshed  gauze  screen  is  stretched  taut 
over  the  entire  proscenium  opening.  Unless  you  sit 
in  the  front  row  and  are  technically  curious  about  the 
theatre  you  will  probably  not  notice  its  presence  at  all. 
But  it  is  there,  and  its  effect  is  to  push  the  actors  and 
the  entire  scene  off  into  the  distance  without  making 
the  figures  smaller.  A  certain  aloofness,  a  strong 
sense  of  objectivity,  is  the  result,  a  kind  of  intan- 
gible and  transparent  but  potent  wall,  erected  between 
spectator  and  player.  Finally,  the  use  of  curtains  is 

184 


Here  and  There  in  Moscow  Theatres 

frequent  and  effective.  Many  scenes  are  set  with  cur- 
tains at  both  sides  and  at  the  rear  with  only  a  piece 
of  furniture  or  a  bit  of  suggestive  wall  inserted  to 
indicate  the  locale.  Outdoor  scenes  are  even  more 
effectively  presented  than  indoor,  a  strange  thing 
in  the  theatre  except  where  the  kuppelhorizont  solves 
all  the  producer's  exterior  problems.  And  the  result 
is  achieved  simply  by  a  very  deep  false  proscenium. 
Curtains  stretched  taut  at  both  sides  and  overhead  lead 
the  eye  back  from  the  real  proscenium  to  a  safe  dis- 
tance. Then  there  is  a  vacant  space  for  a  few  feet,  — 
enough  for  the  movement  of  the  actors.  And  finally 
the  back  curtain,  which  extends  safely  out  of  sight  at 
both  sides  and  above.  The  actors,  of  course,  play  all 
the  way  forward  under  the  false  proscenium. 

On  this  stage  "  A  Christmas  Carol "  emerged  as  a 
series  of  character  studies  rather  than  as  a  play,  for 
Dickens  defies  adequate  dramatization  in  Russian  as 
he  does  in  English.  By  simple  devices,  the  setting  is 
indicated,  —  high  desk  and  stool  for  the  office,  narrow 
bed  and  pinched-up  fireplace  for  Scrooge's  bedroom, 
and  an  ampler  hearth  and  dining  table  for  Bob 
Cratchit's  home.  Without  doubt,  the  most  successful 
scene  in  the  production  is  that  in  which  Marley's  ghost 
appears  to  Scrooge.  Here  you  forget  completely  and 
absolutely  the  half -sketched  setting,  as  you  should 
do  if  Kommissarzhevsky's  method  is  to  be  really  suc- 
cessful. The  tinkle  of  bells  merging  imperceptibly 
into  the  clanking  of  chains  heralds  the  coming  of  the 
ghost,  a  powerfully  suggestive  and  terrifying  and  yet 


The  Russian  Theatre 


a  very  simple  device.  An  exaggeration  that  stops  just 
short  of  the  grotesque  makes  the  face  and  figure  of  the 
ghost  a  picture  amply  fulfilling  the  ominous  concep- 
tions which  the  clanking  chains  have  aroused.  And 
then  his  piercing  cry  and  the  dark  which  follows,  lit 
only  by  a  small  candle  with  its  shivering  shadows, 
bring  the  scene  through  an  intense  course  to  a  decisive 
conclusion.  Its  last  moments  with  the  ghostly  shad- 
ows recall  the  like  effect  gained  by  Lennox  Robinson 
in  his  staging  of  T.  C.  Murray's  "  Birthright  "  for  the 
Irish  Players. 

"  Vanka  the  Butler  and  Page  Jean  "  is  a  characteris- 
tic sample  of  Russian  comedy.  It  probably  could  not 
be  presented  before  a  western  audience  even  as  properly 
as  one  or  two  of  the  most  outspoken  plays  in  the 
Kamerny's  repertory.  With  its  parallel  scenes  of 
French  and  Russian  life  as  it  was  lived  in  the  eight- 
eenth century,  it  is  French  frankness  with  Russian 
frankness  added.  The  impression  exists  that  Solo- 
gub  attempts  to  imitate  Dostoievsky  and  there  are  un- 
doubtedly scenes  and  characters  in  "  Vanka  "  which 
bear  out  this  contention. 

"  Vanka  "  is  interesting  in  the  first  place  for  its 
construction.  Each  of  its  nine  scenes  is  presented 
twice,  once  as  the  story  might  have  happened  in 
eighteenth-century  France  and  then  by  contrast  as  the 
same  story  might  have  taken  place  in  eighteenth-century 
Russia.  One  has  the  strange  and  not  unpleasant  feel- 
ing of  reading  a  chapter  of  a  book  in  one  language 
and  then  turning  back  to  its  beginning  and  rereading 

1 86 


Here  and  There  in  Moscow  Theatres 

it  in  a  translated  language.  Only  here,  the  translation 
from  the  French  version  of  love  and  life  is  not  literal. 
In  suffering  the  sea-change  into  Russian,  many  details 
of  habit,  custom,  character  and  purpose  are  set  forth 
by  the  dramatist  as  very  different  in  his  native  land. 
Loyal  to  it,  he  brings  the  play  to  a  conclusion  favoring 
the  good  and  forgiving  heart  of  the  Russian  in  con- 
trast to  the  less  sympathetic  and  less  human  French- 
man! 

Vanka  is  only  a  nickname  for  Ivan  or  John,  which, 
of  course,  translated  into  French  carries  out  the  com- 
parison indicated  in  the  title  and  retained  throughout 
the  play.  Its  first  scene  merely  gives  the  setting  for 
the  story  and  the  characters,  a  French  count,  his 
wife  and  one  of  their  servants,  Jean;  and  then  in  the 
Russian  version,  a  Russian  prince,  his  wife  and  one  of 
their  servants,  Vanka.  The  second  scene  shows  the 
wife  interested  in  the  servant  and  asking  for  his  ad- 
vancement, first  the  French,  then  the  Russian.  From 
the  simple  curtained  interior  of  these  two  scenes,  the 
play  now  moves  into  the  third,  a  garden,  indicated  only 
by  a  strikingly  painted  and  impressionistic  back  cur- 
tain. Here  the  story  skirts  the  realm  of  danger,  with 
the  promoted  servant  and  the  mistress  making  eyes  at 
each  other,  and,  before  the  scene  closes,  stealing  from 
each  other  the  first  kiss.  The  contrast  here  shows  the 
French  Jean  and  the  countess  as  very  intense  and  los- 
ing themselves  seriously  in  their  passion,  whereas  the 
Russian  pair  seems  to  act  just  as  if  in  good  sport.  Of 
course,  the  contrast  in  manners  here  as  throughout  the 

187 


The  Russian  Theatre 


play  adheres  to  the  accepted  refinement  of  the  French 
and  the  rough  and  crude  heartiness  of  the  Russian. 

In  the  fourth  scene,  the  play  has  reached  the  bed- 
room stage  of  development,  and  both  in  the  French  and 
the  Russian  versions  runs  beyond  Anglo-Saxon  limits 
for  the  dramatic  stage  and  the  printed  record  of  it. 
There  is  no  innuendo,  though,  simply  a  frank  exhibi- 
tion of  the  course  of  events  with  the  curtain  drawn 
when  that  course  has  become  unmistakable.  Here,  too, 
the  intensity  of  the  French  manner  is  contrasted  un- 
favorably by  the  author  with  the  casual  offhandedness 
of  the  Russian  way  of  doing  these  things. 

Jean  and  Vanka  are  beset  by  the  other  servants  in 
the  fifth  scene  and  one  after  another  the  girls  try  to 
attract  his  attention.  Finally  he  yields  to  one  and 
in  the  sixth  scene  he  is  shown  drinking  with  them  all 
and  discovered  by  one  who  has  been  rejected  and  is 
jealous.  The  Russian  version  of  this  scene  is  par- 
ticularly rich  in  flavor  and  in  character  study  and 
brings  to  mind  some  of  the  scenes  from  Dostoievsky. 
Dismissal  follows  in  the  seventh  scene  and  punishment 
in  the  eighth.  A  fine  bit  of  humor  marks  the  Russian 
version,  for  on  the  way  to  the  beheading,  Vanka  points 
out  a  beggar  to  his  executioners  and  for  a  few  kopecks 
induces  them  to  take  the  poor  devil  instead  of  himself 
to  the  block!  And  then  comes  the  final  scene  —  the 
punishment  of  the  wife.  En  franqais,  Madame  Count- 
ess is  chased  from  the  room  with  a  lash  by  her  angry 
husband.  Po  Russky,  the  prince  storms  and  threatens 
and  raves  against  his  wife  and  then  of  a  sudden  opens 

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his  arms  for  her  to  come  and  receive  forgiveness. 
Thus  does  Sologub  pay  tribute  to  the  good  heart  and 
the  forgiving  nature  of  his  race. 

"  Pan  ",  a  comedy  in  three  acts  by  Charles  van  Ler- 
berghe,  gave  promise  in  its  first  act,  especially  in  its  first 
quarter  hour,  of  great  lyric  beauty.  In  a  simple  peas- 
ant home,  a  group  of  gypsies  is  gathered,  wild  souls 
whom  the  peasant  has  harbored  as  he  would  harbor  any 
passer-by.  Out  through  the  door  is  a  glimpse  of  the 
sea  and  in  through  the  door  float  the  strains  of  a  super- 
natural music.  Of  a  sudden,  Pan  himself  springs  to 
life  in  the  room  and  the  gypsy  girls  all  bow  down  to 
him  as  to  a  god.  Immediately,  there  is  a  problem  in 
the  village  and  immediately  the  play  becomes  a  char- 
acter comedy  and  even  a  farce  before  it  is  through, 
losing  all  its  lyric  significance  and  promise. 

"  A  Bad  Anecdote "  is  one  of  Dostoievsky's  un- 
translated short  stories,  extending  over  not  more  than 
fifty  pages.  The  dramatization  has  been  made  in  five 
scenes  and  it  follows  the  story  with  extreme  faithful- 
ness. By  admirable  control  of  his  lights,  the  pro- 
ducer brings  slowly,  stealthily  into  view  the  picture  of 
three  state  councillors  or  civil  generals.  Nikiforoff  and 
Shipulyenko  are  reactionaries  of  the  deepest  stripe. 
Pralinsky  professes  liberal  views.  Nikiforoff  and 
Shipulyenko  admit  that  reforms  are  good  but  usually 
there  is  something  naive  and  childlike  and  helpless 
about  them.  Pralinsky  protests  his  belief  in  humanity 
and  brotherhood.  His  opponents  fear  that  great  dis- 
asters may  rise  from  permitting  reform  to  get  under 

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way.  Pralinsky  replies  with  his  theory  that  if  you 
are  kind-hearted  to  those  beneath  you,  they  will  like 
you.  Liking  you,  they  will  believe  in  you.  And  be- 
lieving in  you,  they  will  believe  in  your  reforms. 
When  Pralinsky  sends  for  his  carriage,  the  servant 
brings  word  that  the  coachman  has  gone  and  left  his 
master  to  take  care  of  himself.  Pralinsky  hotly  curses 
the  fellow,  and  his  friends,  observing  the  contrast  be- 
tween theory  and  practice,  advise  punishment  of  two 
hundred  stripes  with  the  whip.  That,  of  course,  is 
so  exaggerated  that  Pralinsky  sees  the  point,  cools 
down  and  says  that  he  will  walk  home  and  punish  his 
servant  by  making  him  ashamed  of  himself. 

The  three  men  have  had  a  little  too  much  to  drink 
and  the  second  scene  shows  Pralinsky  staggering  home 
along  a  dimly  lighted  street.  The  tumbledown  build- 
ings painted  on  the  back  curtain  are  grotesquely  dis- 
torted by  the  artist,  Annyenkoff,  as  if  they  were  seen 
through  the  tipsy  eyes  of  the  general.  There  is  music 
coming  from  one  of  the  houses  in  the  street,  and  in 
answer  to  the  general's  question  a  policeman  tells  him 
there  is  a  wedding  inside.  It  turns  out  that  the  place 
is  the  home  of  one  of  the  young  men  who  work  under 
Pralinsky  in  his  department.  Aha!  Here  is  the  op- 
portunity to  test  his  theories.  Will  the  young  man 
and  his  guests  become  frightened  if  he  breaks  in  on 
the  party?  They  would  ordinarily,  he  says,  but  not 
with  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  will  make  himself  pop- 
ular by  such  a  course. 

And  so  the  third  scene,  in  the  parlor  at  Psyeldonim- 

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ofFs,  brings  Pralinsky,  still  dangerously  unsober,  into 
the  wedding  group.  A  discolored,  distorted  back  cur- 
tain with  crooked  windows  painted  on  it  indicates  the 
setting.  Confusion,  of  course,  follows  his  entrance, 
but  the  general  is  talkative,  tells  how  he  quarrelled  with 
his  friends,  how  he  was  left  in  the  lurch  by  his  coach- 
man, how  he  started  to  walk  home,  how  he  got  into 
this  part  of  the  city,  asked  about  the  music  he  heard, 
found  who  lived  here  and  just  happened  to  drop  in  on 
them.  His  own  frank  and  unbosoming  manner  helps 
to  put  them  all  at  their  ease.  Soon  he  asks  for  the 
bride  and  when  she  shrinks  timidly  from  the  intro- 
duction, he  gives  her  some  very  specific  and  embar- 
rassing advice.  Little  by  little  the  guests  regain  their 
confidence  and  make  remarks,  rough,  silly  and  point- 
less, just  as  Dostoievsky's  characters  always  do  under 
such  surroundings  and  just  as  they  do  in  the  drab 
course  of  everyday  life.  There  is  a  "  scene  "  with  the 
mother  of  the  girl  who  has  not  been  invited  to  the 
party  and  who  upbraids  them  for  currying  favor  with 
the  general  by  having  him  here.  Pralinsky  now  drifts 
into  a  general  philosophizing  about  rebuilding  Russia, 
and  one  by  one  they  leave  him  alone  and  go  off  to 
their  own  dances  and  sports.  The  scene  closes  with 
the  fact  beginning  to  dawn  on  the  general  that  he  is 
not  at  all  pleased  with  the  familiarity  which  he  has 
courted  from  his  inferiors. 

The  dining  room  is  the  fourth  scene  with  an  age- 
mottled  wall  and  a  wry  stove  painted  on  it  to  indicate 
the  locale.  One  guest  is  already  drunk  and  another 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


and  another  join  his  estate  until  that  party  is  in  the 
majority.     Pralinsky  has  been  drinking  more,  too,  and 
he  tells  them  they  are  all  his  friends;  he  is  the  friend 
of  humanity;  through  his  theories  Russia  will  become 
a  new  country.     By  this  time  they  are  not  the  least 
afraid  of  him  and  they  laugh  at  his  notions  as  if  he 
had  intended  them  as  a  joke.     He  does  not  like  this 
turn  of  affairs  and  protests  that  he  has  not  spoiled 
their  sport.     "  On  the  contrary,"  says  a  young  news- 
paper correspondent  very  frankly,  "  you  have  spoiled 
our  sport.     You  have  drunk  two  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne and  you  don't  realize  how  we  have  had  to  save 
to  buy  such  things  for  our  wedding  party.     Besides, 
you  didn't  '  happen  in '  at  all,  but  you  came  deliber- 
ately, not  as  a  friend  of  humanity  but  just  to  make 
yourself  popular  with  us !  "     Pralinsky  is  abashed  by 
this,  and  the  grim  humor  of  the  scene  is  heightened 
by  the  poor  bridegroom,  Psyeldonimoff,  rushing  about 
from  one  centre  of  disturbance  to  another,  trying 
futilely  to  keep  order  and  save  his  employer  from 
insult.     The  guests  are  departing  by  this  time  and  the 
general,  dead  drunk,  falls  helpless  on  the  floor.     Psyel- 
donimoff brings  the  scene  to  its  conclusion  by  express- 
ing his  dual  fear  that  he  will  lose  his  bride  as  well  as 
his  position  as  a  result  of  the  evening's  fiasco. 

The  final  scene  at  the  home  of  Pralinsky  next  morn- 
ing shows  a  table,  a  chair  and  a  snatch  of  wall.  The 
general  sits  by  himself,  ruminating  over  the  outcome 
of  the  night  and  considering  the  necessity  of  resign- 
ing his  post.  He  will  have  to  change  all  his  ideas. 

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They  were  just  children's  talk.  He  will  be  very  strict 
with  his  inferiors.  In  signing  his  papers,  he  sees  one 
from  young  Psyeldonimoff  asking  to  be  transferred 
to  another  department  in  order  to  avoid  the  awkward 
and  embarrassing  consequences  of  the  night  before. 
And  the  play  closes  with  Pralinsky  admitting  that  his 
friends  were  right.  "  After  all,"  he  says,  "  I  didn't 
hold  my  own." 

It  is  impossible  to  look  upon  "  A  Bad  Anecdote  " 
as  a  defense  of  reactionary  theory  and  policy  on  the 
part  of  Dostoievsky.  The  novelist  suffered  Siberia 
and  the  terrors  which  he  has  depicted  in  "  The  House 
of  the  Dead  "  as  a  revolutionary  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. It  must  be  viewed,  therefore,  as  a  trenchant 
and  pungent  satire  on  dishonest  and  insincere  atti- 
tudes of  reform.  More  than  that,  however,  "  A  Bad 
Anecdote "  has  those  larger,  deeper  human  signifi- 
cances which  rise  above  theory  and  politics  and  prop- 
aganda. Characters  are  painted  with  those  swift 
strokes  displaying  the  author's  insight  into  human 
motives,  —  an  insight  unparalleled  in  literature. 

Fyodor  Kommissarzhevsky  is  a  slight  man  with  a 
reddish-brown  complexion.  He  is  intense  and  nervous 
in  his  movements,  eager  as  a  boy  about  his  work  and 
almost  never  resting  from  it.  I  found  him  one  of  the 
hardest  men  in  Moscow  to  run  down  and  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  once  I  caught  him.  He  was  born  in 
1882  and  made  his  debut  as  a  regisseur  and  a  designer 
of  scenery  at  the.  Dramatic  Theatre  of  Vera  Kommis- 
sarzhevskaya  in  Petrograd  in  1908.  With  his  famous 

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sister,  he  visited  America  that  same  year  and  was 
closely  associated  with  her  until  her  death.  Then  he 
passed  to  the  Theatre  Nezlobina  in  Moscow  as  direc- 
tor, and  in  1913  he  was  engaged  at  the  Imperial  Thea- 
tres in  Moscow  as  regisscur  of  the  companies  at  the 
Great  Theatre  and  the  Small  Theatre.  At  present,  in 
addition  to  his  own  theatre,  he  is  engaged  as  the  chief 
regisseur  of  Opera  at  the  Theatre  of  the  Soviet  of 
Workmen's  Deputies,  formerly  known  as  the  Zimina 
Opera.  In  addition  to  his  practical  work  in  the  theatre 
itself,  he  has  written  two  books  concerning  dramatic 
theory :  "  Theatrical  Preludes  ",  and  "  The  Art  of  the 
Actor  and  the  Theory  of  Stanislavsky."  Prior  to  the 
opening  of  his  own  theatre,  he  had  produced  for  others 
for  the  first  time  on  the  Russian  stage,  Moliere's  "  Le 
Bourgeois  Gentilhomme ",  "  Turandot ",  Goethe's 
"  Faust  "  and  many  other  plays. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  memoranda  concerning  his 
theatre  which  Kommissarzhevsky  gave  me,  he  wrote 
this  paragraph  :  "  During  the  three  years  of  the  theatre, 
the  public  of  Moscow,  accustomed  to  productions  nat- 
uralistic and  imitating  ordinary  life,  has  not  filled  the 
small  hall  of  the  Kommissarzhevskaya  Memorial  Thea- 
tre, and  it  does  not  have  a  taste  for  the  productions  of 
the  new  romantic  type.  In  the  press  the  new  theatre 
has  met  with  a  welcome  very  cold  and  critical."  The 
frankness  which  is  willing  to  confess  these  facts,  how- 
ever, is  equal  to  the  task  of  surmounting  them.  War 
and  its  demoralizing  effects  have  prevented  any  large 
part  of  the  public  from  interesting  themselves  in  the 

194 


Here  and  There  in  Moscow  Theatres 

experimental  theatre.  When  the  ruble  is  going  down 
and  the  prices  of  food  that  may  still  be  bought  are 
going  up,  the  money  spent  for  the  theatre  will  be 
devoted  to  the  conservative  stages  or  those  which  have 
been  established  long  enough  that  the  visitor  knows 
what  he  will  find  when  he  goes.  I  think  Kommissar- 
zhevsky  may  be  trusted  to  realize  this  fact  and  hold 
his  ground  until  Russia  can  devote  a  leisure  ear  and 
eye  to  those  pioneers  who  are  seeking  new  paths  in 
art. 

The  lighter  side  of  the  Russian  stage  is  far  inferior 
to  its  sober  aspects.  Musical  comedy  is  a  poor,  be- 
draggled waif  in  comparison  with  its  gay  and  glit- 
tering sisters  in  New  York  and  London  and  Vienna. 
There  is  no  Russian  Ziegf  eld  to  lure  into  his  gorgeous 
net  the  abundant  ranks  of  Russian  feminine  beauty. 
The  Ballet,  perhaps,  performs  that  task  as  an  inciden- 
tal to  its  more  ambitious  functions.  Varieties  abound 
in  Moscow  and  Petrograd,  but  for  the  most  part  they 
lag  far  behind  the  London  Music  Halls  and  the  Amer- 
ican circuits.  One  by  one  under  the  strain  of  revo- 
lution, they  dwindled  in  attendance  and  snuffed  out, 
until  when  I  left  for  home  there  was  only  a  handful 
remaining.  The  very  stages  which  would  thrive  in  a 
time  of  stress  in  America  and  in  western  Europe 
yielded  to  the  demand  of  the  Russian  nature  for  the 
most  substantial  phases  of  her  art  and  pastime.  When 
under  war  and  revolution  Russia  had  to  give  up  one 
aspect  after  another  of  her  normal  life,  she  kept  her 
theatre  to  the  last.  And  when  she  had  to  surrender 

195 


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a  part  of  that  last  remaining  structure  of  the  elder 
order,  she  clung  to  its  most  inspiring  towers. 

One  figure  and  one  stage  stand  out  against  this 
background  of  mediocrity.  The  man  is  N.  F.  Balieff, 
one  of  the  greatest  of  living  clowns,  and  the  stage  is 
his  super-cabaret,  Letutchaya  Muish  or  The  Bat.  I 
never  forgave  myself  for  neglecting  this  antic  under- 
ground retreat  and  its  droll  proprietor  until  my  third 
month  in  Moscow,  but  once  I  found  it  I  had  a  hard 
time  staying  away.  Balieff  began  at  the  Art  Theatre ; 
who  didn't,  in  fact?  There  he  played  such  divergent 
roles  as  that  of  Bread  in  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  and  the 
clerk  in  Ibsen's  "  Brand."  It  is  difficult,  almost  im- 
possible, to  conceive  of  him  in  a  serious  part,  until 
you  remember  that  every  Russian  player  takes  his 
work,  whether  it  be  in  comedy  or  tragedy,  with  the 
utmost  seriousness.  Balieff  is  most  serious  as  artist 
when  he  is  most  ludicrous  as  entertainer. 

Naturally,  though,  the  Art  Theatre  did  not  give 
him  the  widest  opportunity  for  the  use  of  his  peculiar 
gifts.  Personality  had  to  be  sunk  in  a  role  at  the  Art 
Theatre,  and  his  whimsical  personality  is  his  greatest 
possession  —  his  personality  and  his  face.  I  can 
imagine  nothing  more  disastrous  at  a  funeral  than  the 
appearance  of  that  oval,  lit  by  piercing  black  eyes  and 
traversed  by  a  sensitive  mouth.  Even  in  repose,  its 
humor  is  contagious.  A  twitch  of  that  mouth,  a  flash 
of  the  eyebrow,  and  he  has  told  a  whole  story.  He 
seems  to  take  the  greatest  delight  and  I  know  his 
audience  does  when  he  stands  just  inside  the  wings 

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and  makes  pantomimic  comments  on  a  song  that  holds 
the  centre  of  the  stage.  I  often  felt  sorry  for  the  be- 
witching young  singer,  for  no  one  paid  the  slightest 
attention  to  her! 

Before  he  left  the  Art  Theatre,  Balieff  established 
Letutchaya  Muish  as  a  private  circle  for  Moscow  art- 
ists and  players  and  their  friends.  Entrance  to  it  was 
jealously  guarded  and  eagerly  sought.  That  was  in 
1908,  for  he  was  preparing  to  celebrate  his  tenth  anni- 
versary about  the  time  I  left  Russia.  This  exclusive 
circle  grew,  first  into  a  public  cabaret  where  the  audit- 
ors sat  around  tables  during  the  programme  and  then 
into  its  present  form,  —  a  snug  and  cosy  little  audito- 
rium with  capacious  and  bizarre  refreshment  rooms 
and  a  homelike  foyer  opening  off  it  where  the  long 
intermissions  seem  all  too  short.  A  winding  incline, 
decorated  as  if  for  Hallowe'en,  takes  the  visitor  down 
from  the  street  to  these  canny  caverns  under  Moscow's 
largest  apartment  building.  I  had  not  finished  with 
the  odd  and  grotesque  mementoes  strung  along  the 
walls  when  the  eager  proprietor  bustled  me  off  back 
stage  to  see  his  lighting  and  mechanical  equipment, 
all  in  miniature  like  everything  else,  including  its  short 
and  pudgy  owner,  but  the  most  modern  and  complete 
in  any  Russian  playhouse.  Only  the  most  expert 
hands  are  permitted  to  touch  it,  for  since  the  early 
days  of  the  war  it  has  been  utterly  irreplaceable  in 
Russia. 

The  method  at  The  Bat  is  simply  the  method  of 
Balieff's  personality.  Everything  that  reaches  the 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


public  across  its  stage  passes  through  that  prism. 
Around  him  he  has  gathered  a  group  of  congenial  and 
sympathetic  advisers,  including  the  composer,  Alexei 
Arhangelsky;  Ryabtseff,  comedian  of  the  Ballet;  and 
Burdzhaloff,  of  the  Art  Theatre,  but  he  is  the  presid- 
ing genius  of  the  junta.  The  spirit  of  The  Bat  is  the 
spirit  of  wit  and  not  the  spirit  of  horseplay.  Even 
wit  sometimes  retires  in  favor  of  a  surpassing  bit  of 
poetic  or  tragic  beauty.  A  typical  programme  con- 
sists of  several  songs  in  costume  or  in  character  with 
slight  but  eloquent  backgrounds;  a  farce  or  two 
played  with  the  earnestness  of  all  good  farce;  a  moment 
with  marionettes;  a  scene  or  a  short  play  from  Push- 
kin or  Gogol  or  Gorky;  and,  most  characteristic  of  all, 
an  exciting  quarter  hour  in  which  the  host  pokes  first 
his  easter-egg  face  and  then  his  chunky  body  through 
the  curtains  and  spars  with  the  nimble  tongues  in  the 
audience,  an  exciting  variation  of  the  monologue  in 
American  vaudeville. 

The  most  impressive  production  at  Letutchaya 
Muish  while  I  was  in  Moscow,  and  the  most  unex- 
pected from  the  superficial  aspects  of  the  regisseur, 
was  that  of  Maxim  Gorky's  short  play,  "  Mother." 
Telling  the  simple  story  of  a  youthful  captive  taken 
by  the  terrible  Tamerlane  and  the  successful  plea  of 
the  boy's  mother  for  his  release,  this  bit  of  intense 
drama  is  far  distant  from  the  familiar  style  of  Rus- 
sia's master  playwright  of  to-day.  Balieff  presents  it 
between  snatches  of  choral  song.  After  the  prelude, 
the  black-robed  singers  divide  to  the  right  and  left 

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Here  and  There  in  Moscow  Theatres 

help  to  frame  esthetically  as  well  as  physically  the 
vivid  and  colorful  scene  and  action. 

Not  less  picturesque  was  Balieff's  production  of 
Pushkin's  short  drama,  "  The  Fountain  of  Bakhchi- 
Sarai ",  with  its  impassioned  Oriental  atmosphere. 
Gogol's  story,  "  How  Ivan  Ivanovitch  Exchanged 
Words  with  Ivan  Nikiforovitch  ",  afforded  ample  in- 
centive for  the  irrepressible  humors  of  Balieff's  play- 
ers. Liuboff  Stolitsa,  author  of  "  The  Azure  Carpet  " 
at  the  Kamerny,  was  represented  by  a  pleasantly  cyn- 
ical tale  from  the  Arabian  Nights,  "  The  Mirror  of 
the  Virgin."  And  one  of  the  lesser  skits  of  Tchehoff, 
"  The  Entr'acte  under  the  Divan  ",  was  played  with 
much  gusto.  The  Bat  is  particularly  happy  and  in  its 
proper  mood  in  its  frequent  snatches  and  scenes  from 
peasant  and  historic  Russia.  And  the  quaint  and 
stately  flavor  of  the  songs  and  ballads  of  Glinka  rouses 
an  American's  wonder  why  these  musical  treasures  are 
not  oftener  heard  on  our  concert  stages. 

Of  all  Balieff's  players,  Deykarhanova  is  the  most 
engaging  and  the  most  versatile.  From  the  pleading 
Mother  in  Gorky's  short  drama  to  a  buxom  baba  sing- 
ing of  the  inconvenience  of  railroad  travel  under  the 
Revolution  is  a  long  step,  but  she  takes  it  easily  and 
gracefully.  Hers  is  the  most  incisive  gift  of  charac- 
terization in  the  company,  and  The  Bat  would  indeed 
be  blind  without  her. 

Moscow  playhouses  are  many  and  interesting  out- 
side the  superior  circle  of  the  Art  Theatre,  the  State 
Theatres,  the  Kamerny,  the  Theatre  of  Kommissar- 

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zhevsky  and  Balieff's  Letutchaya  Muish.  The  system 
of  repertory  prevails  everywhere,  even  in  the  vaude- 
villes and  cabarets,  and  in  each  of  them  three  or  four 
plays  or  programmes  of  varying  merit  may  be  observed 
each  week,  with  additions  to  the  repertory  once  or 
twice  a  month  in  the  form  of  new  productions  or 
revivals  from  a  previous  season.  From  them  a  very 
good  impression  may  be  obtained  of  the  seriousness 
with  which  the  Russian  takes  his  drama,  for  the  fea- 
ture which  distinguishes  their  work  from  the  superior 
circle  is  not  their  repertory  so  much  as  their  less  thor- 
ough and  less  imaginative  settings,  the  inferiority  of 
many  of  their  actors  and  their  lack  of  a  definite  theory 
of  the  theatre.  Nevertheless,  many  an  interesting 
evening  can  be  spent  in  their  auditoriums.  I  recall 
with  especial  pleasure  a  simple  but  moving  and  poign- 
ant production  of  Leonid  AndreiefFs  early  drama, 
"  The  Days  of  Our  Life  ",  at  the  Theatre  Korsha,  one 
of  the  landmarks  among  Moscow  playhouses. 

A  record  of  the  Moscow  theatres  is  not  quite  com- 
plete, either,  without  a  word  concerning  Pavel  Orlien- 
ieff,  —  he  who  brought  his  pupil,  Alia  Nazimova,  to 
America  a  decade  and  more  ago  and  was  known  to  us 
as  Paul  Orleneff.  Orlienieff  is  a  restless  soul.  The 
restrictions  of  working  in  one  theatre  would  irk  him 
too  much.  And  so  he  is  one  of  the  few  foot-loose 
players  of  great  ability  in  Russia.  Occasionally  he 
leases  a  theatre  for  a  short  period  and  settles  down, 
and  then  he  is  off  again,  up  and  down  the  provinces. 
In  a  way,  he  is  an  actor's  actor,  for  he  is  more  highly 

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Here  and  There  in  Moscow  Theatres 

regarded  among  his  fellow  artists  than  he  is  by  the 
theatregoing  public,  but  that  may  be  because  he  has 
never  cultivated  a  permanent  public.  At  any  rate,  the 
evening  I  saw  him  play  Dostoievsky's  "  Crime  and 
Punishment "  at  Youzhny's  Variety  Theatre  in  Mos- 
cow, almost  all  the  leading  artists  of  the  city's  theatres 
were  in  the  audience,  including  Katchaloff  and  Mme. 
Knipper  and  many  others  from  the  Art  Theatre. 

Orlienieff  himself  is  an  actor  of  very  great  talent  if 
not  of  genius.  But  his  vagabond  ways  are  disastrous 
to  the  unity  of  his  company  and  the  perfection  of  his 
ensemble.  As  a  trainer  of  actors,  he  is  named  in 
Russia  in  the  next  rank  after  Stanislavsky.  It  is 
apparent  to  everyone  in  America  now,  as  it  was  clear 
to  many  at  the  time,  that  his  was  the  flame  that  lit  up 
those  early  performances  of  Ibsen  by  Nazimova  in 
this  country.  The  farther  the  actress  got  from  her 
preceptor  and  the  roles  he  had  taught  her,  the  more 
artificial  she  became.  Orlienieff  told  me  he  longed 
to  come  to  America  again.  But  the  way  is  long  and 
rough  these  days,  and  I  do  not  know  whether  he  is  a 
good  enough  vagabond  to  traverse  it. 


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CHAPTER   XIII 
MEYERHOLD  AND  THE  THEATRE  THEATRICAL 

MEYERHOLD  and  Yevreynoff ,  —  these  were  the  two 
names  that  lured  me  from  the  comparative  safety  of 
Moscow  to  the  uncertainties  of  Petrograd  during  those 
anxious  days  of  February,  1918,  when  the  gray  hordes 
of  the  Germans  were  swarming  on  unimpeded  toward 
the  capital.  The  stages  of  Moscow  are  the  Russian 
theatre  in  microcosm,  —  with  two  exceptions.  The 
Art  Theatre  with  its  unique  tradition  and  its  unrivalled 
record;  the  Small  State  Theatre  with  its  roots  firmly 
grounded  in  the  classic  past;  the  Great  State  Theatre 
with  its  remarkable  equipment  of  youthful  genius  in 
the  Ballet;  the  eager  enthusiasm  of  artistic  revolt  under 
Tairoff  and  Balieff  and  Kommissarzhevsky  in  their 
widely  divergent  institutions,  —  these  stages  and  the 
theories  of  the  men  who  dominate  them  seem,  after 
several  months  of  intimate  contact  with  them,  to  tell 
the  whole  story  of  the  contemporary  Russian  theatre. 

Still,  there  were  two  exceptions.  No  one  in  Mos- 
cow could  deny  it,  no  matter  how  partisan  was  his  in- 
terest in  his  own  city's  playhouses.  The  exceptions 
were  so  exceptional  that  their  fame  had  travelled  before 
the  war  to  far-off  America  alongside  that  of  Stanis- 
lavsky and  the  Art  Theatre  and  the  Ballet.  Meyerhold 

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Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

stood  out  in  these  rumors  as  the  uncompromising  foe 
of  Stanislavsky  and  realism,  the  defender  and  practi- 
tioner of  the  theatre  theatrical.  Yevreynoff  emerged 
dimly  in  the  guise  of  a  proponent  of  a  new  way  of  con- 
ceiving the  theatre,  monodrama.  From  my  first  con- 
sultation with  Tardoff  and  my  first  visit  to  Stanislav- 
sky's dressing  room,  these  two  names  were  spoken  with 
respect  wherever  Russian  artists  gathered.  Under  the 
spell  of  the  Moscow  theatres,  I  had  lingered  in  the 
Kremlin  city  almost  four  months.  But  a  visit  to 
Petrograd  was  essential,  Germans  or  no  Germans! 

Mid-February,  about  a  week  before  I  finally  made 
up  my  mind  to  go  to  Petrograd,  the  Kamerny  held  a 
kind  of  all-night  fair,  attended  by  almost  the  entire 
futurist  colony  of  Moscow  and  many  of  the  artists 
and  poets  and  players,  such  as  David  Burliuk,  "  the 
father  of  Russian  futurism  " ;  Aristid  Lyentuloff ,  who 
paints  Kremlin  cathedrals  standing  on  their  ears;  and 
Vera  Holodnaya,  the  brunette  Mary  Pickford  of  the 
Russian  movies.  Vassily  Kamyensky  was  there,  a 
handsome  fellow  in  curly  golden  hair  and  a  Roman 
stripe  coat  who  has  written  a  novel  or  two  and  several 
volumes  of  futurist  verse.  He  is  Yevreynoff's  biog- 
rapher, too,  and  from  him  I  found  that  Nikolai  Niko- 
laievitch  had  exchanged  the  black  bread  and  the  alar- 
ums of  life  in  Petrograd  for  the  well-fed  peace  of 
Sukhum-Kale  on  the  Black  Sea.  But  Meyerhold  re- 
mained at  his  post,  and  besides  I  might  trace  out  the 
trail  of  Yevreynoff  in  his  absence. 

My  first  evening  in  Petrograd,  less  than  five  hours 
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after  my  arrival,  found  me  at  the  Alexandrinsky 
Theatre,  the  state-endowed  home  of  the  drama  in  the 
capital  corresponding  to  the  Small  State  Theatre  in 
Moscow  but  not  so  conservative  in  its  traditions. 
"  Rcvizor  "  or  "  The  Inspector  General  ",  Gogol's  im- 
perishable satire,  was  the  play,  and  although  Meyer- 
hold  was  absent,  my  note  of  introduction  to  him  from 
Tairoff  readily  admitted  me.  Obviously,  the  theatre 
was  having  a  harder  struggle  against  the  difficulties 
of  life  in  the  capital,  for  the  audience  was  inferior  in 
numbers  and  in  self-possession  to  those  of  Moscow. 
Obviously,  too,  Meyerhold  had  nothing  to  do  with  this 
production  of  "  Revizor  ",  for  it  was  a  rather  ordinary 
example  of  realistic  staging  dignified  only  by  the  su- 
perior humors  of  Uraloff,  the  bluff  comedian  who  a 
decade  and  more  ago  had  played  the  same  role  of  the 
town-bailiff  in  Moscow  as  a  member  of  the  Art  Theatre 
company.  Meyerhold,  it  appeared,  was  one  of  several 
regisseurs  at  the  Alexandrinsky,  and  to  make  sure  of 
seeing  his  work  I  must  seek  him  out  in  person. 

Running  down  a  busy  individual  in  Petrograd,  with 
every  one  disconcerted  by  the  German  menace  and 
with  the  necessity  of  establishing  myself  in  reasonable 
safety  in  a  strange  and  turbulent  city  was  a  harder 
task  than  working  out  diplomatic  relations  with  the 
Moscow  theatres  after  the  Bolshevik  Revolution.  At 
noon  of  the  third  day,  I  found  my  quarry  busy  with  a 
rehearsal  at  the  Marinsky,  for  he  sometimes  turns  for 
variety's  sake  from  drama  to  the  opera.  Could  I  come 
back  that  evening?  —  he  would  have  more  time:  this 

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Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

was  the  note  hurriedly  pencilled  on  his  card.  And  so 
while  the  plaintive  melodies  of  Puccini's  "  La  Boheme  " 
drifted  into  the  inner  rooms  of  the  regisseur's  loge,  I 
sat  and  talked  for  the  first  time  with  Vsevolod  Emilye- 
vitch  Meyerhold. 

It  is  easy  to  see  at  a  glance  why  the  theatre  theatrical 
is  the  artistic  gospel  of  Meyerhold.  There  is  nothing 
theatrical  about  the  man  himself,  —  unless  it  be  the 
huge,  soft  white  collar  around  his  slender  neck,  a  mat- 
ter of  careless  comfort  as  much  as  anything.  He  is  too 
intense  and  earnest  in  his  belief  in  the  theatrical  to  toy 
with  it.  His  acceptance  of  realism  as  a  dramatic 
method  during  his  collaboration  with  Stanislavsky  in 
the  early  years  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  was  not 
the  act  of  a  dilletante  any  more  than  the  advocacy  of 
its  opposite  to-day.  His  revolt  against  the  sterility  of 
the  Russian  theatre  of  the  nineteenth  century  was  just 
as  sincere  as  his  revolt  against  the  first  means  by  which 
he  hoped  to  correct  the  fault.  He  simply  found  that 
a  certain  honest  cynicism  in  his  nature  refused  to 
countenance  the  attempt  to  create  illusion  by  the  faith- 
ful and  accurate  representation  of  life. 

All  through  the  ten  days  that  remained  of  my  asso- 
ciation with  him,  the  artistic  abstemiousness  of  the  man 
stood  out  emphatically  among  his  characteristics.  His 
friends  are  not  so  much  among  those  who  talk  about 
art  as  among  those  who  practice  it.  He  has  particu- 
lar regard  for  Miklashevsky,  the  leading  Russian  au- 
thority on  the  Italian  commedia  dell'  arte,  and  a  pro- 
found respect  for  Yevreynoff,  whose  revolt  against 

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realism  in  the  theatre  has  taken  a  different  course  than 
his  own.  And  his  constant  companion  in  leisure  as 
well  as  in  work  is  the  artist,  Alexander  Yakovlevitch 
Golovin,  who  has  designed  the  scenery  for  almost  all 
his  productions  at  the  state  theatres  in  Petrograd  dur- 
ing the  last  decade. 

Once  while  the  anxiety  over  the  German  advance 
was  at  its  peak,  I  spent  the  evening  at  his  home  in  a 
modern  but  modest  apartment  house  out  in  the  Sixth 
Rota  in  the  southern  part  of  the  city.  The  front 
stairway  was  locked  and  barred  and  under  guard  for 
the  night,  and  after  satisfying  the  watchman  I  made 
my  way  upward  through  a  rear  entrance  to  the  four 
or  five  rooms  where  he  and  Mme.  Meyerhold,  a  practi- 
cal consort,  have  their  home.  Fred  Gray,  a  former 
correspondent  of  The  London  Daily  Mail  who  had  been 
decorated  with  the  St.  George's  Cross  for  bravery  at 
the  front,  was  present  with  his  Russian  wife.  And  so 
was  Golovin,  one  of  the  gentlest  artist  souls  I  have 
ever  known.  Spread  out  on  a  table  in  a  small  studio 
lined  with  book  shelves  were  the  artist's  designs  and  the 
producer's  plans  for  some  future  production  of  Stra- 
vinsky's first  lyric  drama,  "  Le  Rossignol",  which 
other  European  capitals  had  heard  under  Diagileff 
but  which  Petrograd  had  been  denied  by  the  conserv- 
atism of  the  Tsar's  court.  Around  a  simple  board 
in  the  living  room  we  sat  informally  over  our  tea  and 
the  bread  with  which  Mme.  Meyerhold  honored  my 
visit,  and  we  talked  of  the  hardness  of  life  and  the  un- 
certainty of  the  times  but  most  of  all  of  the  certainty  of 

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Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

the  theatre  and  the  persistence  of  art  through  the  most 
bitter  ordeals.  I  must  remain,  they  all  agreed,  at  least 
until  I  could  see  the  revival  of  Moliere's  "  Don  Juan  ", 
the  production  by  which  in  November,  1910,  Meyer- 
hold  introduced  a  new  tradition  in  the  state  theatres. 

A  dress  rehearsal  of  "  Don  Juan  "  was  scheduled  for 
Saturday  morning,  March  2,  preparatory  to  the  pub- 
lic disclosure  the  following  Tuesday  evening.  I  de- 
cided to  attend  as  a  precaution  against  the  possible 
necessity  of  flight  before  Tuesday.  Until  the  actors 
came,  Meyerhold  and  Golovin  waited  with  me  in  the 
greenroom  of  the  Alexandrinsky  amid  the  relics  and 
memorials  of  almost  a  century  of  the  Russian  stage, 
for  the  theatre  was  built  from  Rossi's  designs  in  1832 
and  named  after  the  wife  of  Tsar  Nicholas  I.  The 
more  I  saw  of  Golovin,  the  more  I  was  charmed  by  his 
spirit,  as  beautiful  and  simple  as  the  soul  of  a  child. 
Meyerhold's  spirit  is  equally  fine,  but  he  is  more  ag- 
gressive and  he  takes  the  lead  in  their  collaboration. 
When  the  rehearsal  finally  began,  he  pushed  it  through 
with  assurance  and  precision,  often  leaping  up  on  the 
extended  apron  and  playing  a  part  himself  as  an  ex- 
ample for  the  actor.  In  between  the  acts,  we  ad- 
journed briefly  to  the  refreshment  room  for  a  glass  of 
tea  and  a  shaving  of  black  bread  in  lieu  of  a  sandwich. 
When  the  rehearsal  was  over  and  we  emerged  in  the 
Nevsky  Prospekt,  a  score  of  shots  rang  out  in  the  block 
opposite  the  small  shops  of  the  Gostinny  Dvor  where  a 
long  queue  waited  with  mixed  patience  for  permission 
to  leave  the  city.  It  seemed  like  a  far  cry  from  Mo- 

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liere  and  the  good  will  of  the  artists  to  the  seething  ex- 
citement of  out-of-door  Petrograd.  I  do  not  wonder 
which  was  the  real  Russia,  the  Russia  which  will  live  on 
into  the  generations  ahead. 

"  Don  Juan  "  in  rehearsal  was  antic  and  jolly.  In 
performance,  it  was  sheer  joy,  —  the  joy  of  the  theatre 
as  theatre.  You  face  Meyerhold's  stage  with  no  illu- 
sion that  it  is  not  a  stage.  Of  course  it  is  a  stage! 
Why  pretend  it  isn't?  There  it  is,  under  the  full 
lights  of  the  auditorium,  curtain  removed  and  apron 
extended  twenty  feet  beyond  the  proscenium  arch.  It's 
a  play  you  shall  see,  a  play,  you  who  love  the  theatre 
for  its  own  sake!  No  cross-section  of  life  here,  no 
attempt  to  copy  life !  No  illusion  here,  to  be  shattered 
by  the  slightest  mishap  or  by  a  prosaic  streak  in  the 
spectator's  make-up.  It's  a  play  you  shall  see,  and 
you'll  know  it  all  the  time,  for  you'll  play,  too,  whether 
you  realize  it  or  not.  The  audience  is  always  an  essen- 
tial factor  in  the  production  of  drama,  but  never  does 
it  enter  so  completely,  so  keenly  into  the  psychological 
complex  as  in  the  theatre  theatrical.  The  give  and 
take  between  audience  and  actor  is  dynamic  and  almost 
incessant. 

Into  this  theatre  and  to  this  stage,  Meyerhold  brings 
a  play  from  out  of  an  epoch  which  produced  its  drama 
in  almost  identically  the  same  spirit  of  disillusioned 
make-believe.  "  On  the  extreme  west ",  he  writes  in 
commenting  on  his  production  of  "  Don  Juan  ",  "  in 
France  and  Italy,  Spain  and  England,  and  on  the  ex- 
treme east  in  Japan,  within  the  limits  of  one  epoch  (the 

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SETTING  FOR  ACT  I 


SETTING  FOR  ACT  IV 


SCENE  DESIGNS  BY  GOLOVIN  FOR  MEYERHOLD  8  PRODUCTION  OF 

THE  OPERA,  "THE  STONE  GUEST,"  TEXT  BY  PUSHKIN  AND  SCORE 
BY  DARGOMUIZHBKY,  AT  THE  MARINSKY  THEATRE,  PETROGRAD 


Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

second  half  of  the  sixteenth  and  the  whole  of  the  sev- 
enteenth century),  the  theatre  resounds  with  the  tam- 
bourines of  pure  theatricality.  .  .  .  The  academic 
theatre  of  the  Renaissance,  unable  to  make  use  of  the 
greatly  extended  forestage,  removed  the  actor  to  a 
respectable  distance  from  the  public.  .  .  .  Moliere 
is  the  first  of  the  masters  of  the  stage  of  the  era  of 
Louis  XIV  to  bring  the  action  forward  from  the  back 
and  the  middle  of  the  stage  to  the  forestage,  to  the 
very  edge  of  it.  ... 

"  Is  it  not  intelligible  why  every  incident  of  any  scene 
of  that  brilliant  theatrical  epoch  took  place  on  this 
wonderful  spot  called  the  forestage?  .  .  . 

"  Similar  to  the  arena  of  a  circus,  pressed  on  all 
sides  by  a  ring  of  spectators,  the  forestage  is  brought 
near  the  public,  so  that  not  one  gesture,  not  one  move- 
ment, not  one  glimpse  of  the  actor  should  be  lost  in 
the  dust  of  the  back  stage.  And  see  how  thoughtfully 
tactful  are  these  gestures,  movements,  postures  and 
grimaces  of  the  actor  on  the  forestage.  Of  course! 
Could  an  actor  with  an  inflated  affectation  or  with  in- 
sufficiently flexible  bodily  movements  be  tolerated  at 
the  proximity  to  the  public  at  which  the  forestages  of 
the  old  English,  French,  Spanish  and  Japanese  theatres 
placed  their  actors  ?  " 

In  approaching  the  problem  of  producing  a  play  from 
the  old  theatre,  Meyerhold  admits  that  there  is  no  need 
for  the  exact  reproduction  of  the  architectural  pecul- 
iarities of  the  old  stages.  Free  composition  in  the 
spirit  of  the  primitive  stage  will  serve,  provided  the 

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substance  of  the  architectural  peculiarities  most  suited 
to  the  spirit  of  the  production  is  retained.  What  is 
more  important,  he  thinks,  is  to  determine  whether  the 
play  in  hand  is  one  which  can  be  comprehended  by  the 
contemporary  spectator  through  the  prism  of  his  own 
time,  or  whether  it  will  convey  its  idea  only  when  the 
conditions  and  the  atmosphere  surrounding  the  original 
players  and  playhouse  and  audience  are  reproduced 
to-day.  Such  a  play  as  the  latter,  he  insists,  is  Moliere's 
4'  Don  Juan." 

"  Therefore  ",  he  writes  in  the  critical  essay  on  his 
production  quoted  before,  "  the  regisseur  who  ap- 
proaches the  staging  of  '  Don  Juan '  must  first  of  all 
fill  the  stage  and  the  hall  with  such  an  atmosphere  that 
the  action  could  not  be  understood  except  through  the 
prism  of  that  atmosphere.  ...  It  is  necessary  to 
remind  the  spectator  during  the  whole  course  of  the 
play  of  all  the  thousands  of  looms  of  the  Lyonnaise 
factories  preparing  the  silks  for  the  monstrously  numer- 
ous courtiers  of  Louis  XIV;  of  the  Gobelin  hotel;  of 
the  town  of  painters,  sculptors,  jewellers  and  turners; 
of  the  furniture  manufactured  under  the  guidance  of 
prominent  artists;  of  all  those  masters  producing  mir- 
rors and  laces  according  to  the  Venetian  models,  stock- 
ings according  to  the  English  model,  cloth  according 
to  the  Dutch  model,  and  tin  and  copper  according  to 
the  German. 

"  Hundreds  of  wax  candles  in  three  chandeliers  from 
above  and  in  two  candlesticks  on  the  forestage;  little 
negroes  filling  the  stage  with  stupefying  perfumes, 

azo 


Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

dripping  them  from  a  cut-glass  flask  on  heated  platinum 
plates;  little  negroes  flitting  on  the  stage  here  to  pick 
up  a  lace  handkerchief  from  the  hands  of  Don  Juan  or 
there  to  push  the  chairs  before  the  tired  actors;  litfle 
negroes  tying  the  ribbons  on  the  shoes  of  Don  Juan 
while  he  is  having  a  discussion  with  Sganarelle;  little 
negroes  handing  the  actors  lanterns  when  the  stage  is 
submerged  in  semi-darkness;  little  negroes  clearing 
away  from  the  stage  the  mantles  and  the  sabers  after 
the  desperate  fight  between  Don  Juan  and  the  brigands ; 
little  negroes  crawling  under  the  table  when  the  statue 
of  the  Commander  comes  on  the  stage;  little  negroes 
calling  the  public  together  by  ringing  a  little  silver  bell 
and  in  the  absence  of  the  curtain  announcing  the  inter- 
missions, —  these  are  not  tricks  created  for  the  diver- 
sion of  the  snobs;  all  this  is  in  the  name  of  the  main 
object  of  the  play :  to  show  the  gilded  Versailles  realm 
veiled  with  a  perfumed  smoke. 

"  The  more  sharply  Moliere's  temperament  as  a 
comedian  stood  out  amid  the  Versailles  affectation,  the 
more  we  expect  from  the  wealth,  the  splendor  and  the 
beauty  of  costumes  and  accessories,  although  the  archi- 
tecture of  the  stage  may  be  extremely  simple." 

And  why  is  the  curtain  removed  for  "  Don  Juan  "  at 
the  Alexandrinsky  ?  The  play  was  not  so  presented 
either  at  the  Palais  Royal  or  at  the  Petit  Bourbon. 
"  The  spectator  is  usually  coldly  inclined,"  the  producer 
answers,  "  when  he  looks  at  the  curtain,  no  matter  how 
well  painted  it  is  nor  by  what  great  master.  The  spec- 
tator has  come  to  the  theatre  to  see  what  is  behind  the 

211 


The  Russian  Theatre 


curtain;  until  it  is  lifted,  he  contemplates  the  idea  of 
the  painting  on  the  curtain  indifferently.  The  curtain 
is  lifted,  and  how  much  time  will  pass  until  the  specta- 
tor will  absorb  all  the  charms  of  the  milieu  surrounding 
the  personages  of  the  play?  It  is  different  when  the 
stage  is  open  from  beginning  to  end,  different  under  a 
peculiar  kind  of  pantomime  by  the  supernumeraries 
who  are  preparing  the  stage  before  the  eyes  of  the 
public.  Long  before  the  actor  appears  on  the  stage, 
the  spectator  has  succeeded  in  breathing  in  the  air  of 
the  period." 

Further,  concerning  the  illuminated  auditorium, 
Meyerhold  writes :  "  It  is  unnecessary  to  immerse  the 
hall  in  darkness  either  during  the  intermissions  or  dur- 
ing the  course  of  the  action.  Bright  light  infects  the 
playgoers  with  a  festal  mood.  When  the  actor  sees 
the  smile  on  the  lips  of  the  spectator  he  begins  to  admire 
himself  as  if  before  a  mirror." 

Meyerhold's  facile  invention  and  his  instinct  for  the 
elements  of  the  dramatic  are  evident  throughout  the 
production  of  "  Don  Juan."  In  addition  to  solving 
the  secret  of  the  means  wherewith  to  make  the  play 
live  to-day  with  the  same  zest  as  at  its  original  perform- 
ance, he  has  devoted  to  every  scene  a  mind  alert  for 
those  eloquent  but  uncatalogued  nuances  and  emphases 
by  which  a  producer  heightens  the  dramatic  effect  of 
a  play.  Such  methods  are  particularly  suitable  in  the 
theatre  theatrical,  for  it  lives  and  thrives  on  artifice 
contrived  with  skill  and  imagination.  In  Don  Juan's 
scene  with  the  peasant  girls,  for  instance,  Meyerhold 

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Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

has  developed  the  amusing  series  of  asides  to  first  one 
girl  and  then  the  other  in  such  a  way  that  Juan  de- 
scribes a  kind  of  fantastic  geometric  figure  in  his  dual 
conversation.  It  is  all  highly  artificial,  just  like  Mo- 
liere's  language  in  the  scene,  but  it  is  also  highly  amus- 
ing and  even  mildly  exciting  in  its  stimulus  to  our 
sense  of  gesture.  By  an  equally  adroit  use  of  sus- 
pense, the  arrival  of  the  Statue  at  the  feast  is  built  up 
in  a  combined  spirit  of  awe  and  droll  extravagance 
which  leaves  the  spectator  in  that  baffled  mood  which 
Meyerhold  and  even  Moliere,  it  would  seem,  deliber- 
ately sought. 

Golovin's  scenery  is  responsible  for  a  large  measure 
of  the  unity  and  decisiveness  of  the  impression  which 
"  Don  Juan  "  gives  at  the  Alexandrinsky.  America 
and  the  capitals  of  Europe  are  acquainted  with  the 
artist  almost  solely  through  the  fantastic  and  sky- 
searching  castles  of  his  background  for  Stravinsky's 
ballet,  "  L'Oiseau  de  Feu  ",  in  the  Diagileff  repertory. 
In  "  Don  Juan  "  he  works  in  a  wholly  different  mood. 
The  precision  of  artifice  takes  the  place  of  free  fancy. 
I  was  unable  to  obtain  adequate  reproductions  of  the 
settings  for  the  Moliere  version  of  the  legend,  but 
Golovin,  in  collaboration  with  Meyerhold,  translated 
the  Pushkin-Dargomuizhsky  operatic  reading  of  the 
Don  Juan  chronicle,  "  The  Stone  Guest ",  to  the  stage 
of  the  Marinsky  in  much  the  same  mood,  and  I  am  pre- 
senting two  scenes  from  that  production.  The  de- 
sign for  Act  IV  is  especially  reminiscent  of  the  decora- 
tive effect  of  the  "  Don  Juan  "  settings.  The  whole 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


outward  investiture  of  costume  and  scenery  is  tapestry 
in  texture;  the  note  of  applied  design  dominates  the 
composition;  and  yet  there  is  a  fine  freedom  and  care- 
lessness in  the  application  which  enables  the  outward 
dressing  to  merge  in  spirit  with  the  plastic  action  of 
the  play. 

I  am  not  sure  what  is  the  final  impression  left  by 
"  Don  Juan  "  at  the  Alexandrinsky.  I  do  not  think  it 
is  entirely  the  impression  of  Moliere.  Or  of  Louis  le 
Grand.  Certainly  it  is  only  remotely  that  of  the  Sic- 
ily which  the  playwright  designated  as  its  locale. 
Neither  is  there  anything  specifically  Russian  in  the 
intellectual  or  emotional  record  left  by  the  play.  I  sup- 
pose that  record  includes  something  of  all  these  forces, 
—  filtered  and  fused  through  the  creative  imagination 
of  Meyerhold,  to  the  end  that  joy  may  be  the  lot  of  him 
who  submits  himself  to  its  spell. 

The  history  of  Meyerhold's  "  Don  Juan  "  is  typical 
of  all  such  productions  in  the  Russian  theatre.  It  was 
not  conceived  for  a  night  or  a  season  but  for  a  genera- 
tion. Revealed  for  the  first  time  on  November  22, 
1910,  it  was  played  from  twenty-five  to  thirty  times 
during  that  season.  Since  then,  it  has  been  revived 
occasionally  during  three  seasons,  —  1911-1912,  1913- 
1914  and  1918.  The  opening  performance  of  the 
latest  revival,  which  I  saw,  was  the  forty-second  in 
order  from  the  start.  They  do  not  drive  beauty  to  an 
early  grave  in  Russia !  Nor  do  they  disarrange  a  work 
of  dramatic  art  any  more  than  is  necessary  through  the 
exigencies  of  time.  Of  fourteen  named  roles  in  the 

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Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

play,  nine  were  played  in  March,  1918,  by  the  same 
actors  as  in  November,  1910. 

Meyerhold's  contempt  for  realism  in  the  theatre  and 
for  the  intimate  theatre  which  is,  perhaps,  the  final 
development  of  realism,  is  nowhere  more  pointedly 
expressed  than  in  his  attack  upon  the  production  of 
"  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth  "  at  the  First  Studio  of 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  The  criticism  appeared 
early  in  1915  in  his  occasional  periodical  of  the  theatre, 
The  Journal  of  Doctor  Dapertutto,  under  the  title, 
"  '  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth '  or  At  the  Keyhole  ", 
and  it  leads  off  with  these  lines  from  Gogol's  play, 
"  The  Wedding  " : 

KOTCHKARYOFF  —  But  what  is  she  doing  now? 
Why,  this  door  must  lead  to  her  bedroom.  (He  goes 
near  the  door.) 

FEKLA  (a  woman)  — You  impudent  fellow!  You 
are  told  that  she  is  still  dressing. 

KOTCHKARYOFF  —  What  of  it!  What's  the  differ- 
ence? I  shall  only  peep  in  and  nothing  more.  (He 
looks  through  the  keyhole. ) 

ZHEVAKIN  —  Let  me  look  in,  too. 

YAITCHNITSA  —  Let  me  look  in,  too,  only  one  little 
peep. 

KOTCHKARYOFF  (continuing  to  peep  in) — Why, 
there  is  nothing  to  be  seen,  gentlemen !  You  can't  dis- 
tinguish anything.  Something  white  is  appearing,  a 
woman  or  a  pillow.  (All  come  to  the  door,  however, 
and  scramble  to  peep  in.} 

"  This  fragment,"  writes  Meyerhold,  "  contains  all 
that  I  wish  to  say  about  the  public  which  finally  has 
found  an  ideal  theatre  for  itself."  And  later,  after  a 


The  Russian  Theatre 


scathing  indictment  of  the  intimate  theatre  and  its 
realism  as  a  surrender  to  the  morbid  human  curiosity 
concerning  life,  he  writes :  "  We  prefer  the  theatre 
\vith  art  but  without  a  public  to  the  theatre  with  a 
public  but  without  art.  For  we  know  that  after  all 
had  rushed  to  the  door  and  tried  to  peep  through  the 
keyhole,  Kotchkaryoff  came  with  the  news,  '  Sh ! 
Somebody's  coming ! '  and  every  one  jumped  away 
from  the  door.  To  every  shamelessness  there  is  a 
limit." 

The  wealth  of  dramatic  methods  and  motives  which 
Meyerhold  opposes  to  realism  is  limited  only  by  the 
bounds  of  the  most  restless  fancy.  Rejected  as  a  mere 
means  of  copying  life,  the  simplest  and  most  homely 
details  take  on  new  significance  as  they  are  molded  in 
the  theatre  into  a  new  world  of  the  imagination.  From 
a  prospectus  of  his  Studio,  which  aims  mainly  "  to 
develop  in  the  actors  the  mastery  of  movement  in  con- 
formity with  the  platform  where  the  play  goes  on  ", 
I  take  these  phrases,  which  indicate  roughly  the  new 
implications  which  ordinary  acts  and  facts  may  be 
made  to  assume :  "  The  meaning  of  the  '  refusal ' ;  the 
value  of  the  gesture  in  itself;  the  self -admiration  of 
the  actor  in  the  process  of  acting;  the  technique  of 
using  two  stages,  the  stage  and  the  forestage;  the 
role  of  the  outcry  in  the  moment  of  strained  acting; 
the  elegant  costume  of  the  actor  as  a  decorative  orna- 
ment and  not  a  utilitarian  need ;  the  headgear  as  a  mo- 
tive for  the  stage  bow ;  little  canes,  lances,  small  rugs, 
lanterns,  shawls,  mantles,  weapons,  flowers,  masks, 

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Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

noses,  etc.,  as  apparatus  for  the  exercise  of  the  hands; 
the  appearance  of  objects  on  the  platform  and  further 
destiny  in  the  development  of  the  subject  dependent  on 
these  objects;  large  and  small  curtains  (permanent  and 
sliding,  curtains  in  the  sense  of  '  sails  ')  as  the  simplest 
method  of  changes;  screens  and  transparencies  as  a 
means  of  theatrical  expressiveness ;  gauzes  in  the  hands 
of  the  servants  of  the  forestage  as  a  means  of  under- 
lining the  separate  accents  in  the  playing  of  the  leading 
actors,  —  in  their  movements  and  conversations ;  pa- 
rade as  a  necessary  and  independent  part  of  the  theatri- 
cal appearance ;  various  forms  of  parade  in  conformity 
with  the  character  of  the  general  composition  of  the 
play;  geometrization  of  the  design  into  the  mise  en 
scene,  created  even  ex  improvise;  the  mutual  relation 
of  the  word  and  gesture  in  existing  theatres  and  in  the 
theatre  to  which  the  Studio  aspires." 

Naturally,  the  process  of  reconstructing  the  theatre 
theatrical  has  been  slow  and  evolutionary  after  the 
first  revolutionary  break  with  the  standards  of  realism. 
Even  the  rediscovery  of  the  principles  which  guided  it 
in  its  elder  incarnation  has  been  achieved  by  trial  and 
experiment,  and  the  newer  principles  growing  out  of 
the  richer  mechanical  endowment  and  the  broadened 
and  deepened  psychological  horizon  of  our  time  require 
even  more  patient  testing.  It  would  be  interesting,  if 
possible,  to  compare  Meyerhold's  original  revival  of 
"  Don  Juan  "  with  its  aspects  to-day,  in  order  to  see 
wherein  he  has  acquired  a  firmer  grip  on  the  details  of 
a  technique  which  is  still  in  the  making. 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


Meyerhold  as  an  artist  of  the  theatre  has  travelled 
far  since  as  a  young  man  he  originated  the  role  of  Tre- 
plieff  in  Tchehoff's  "  The  Sea  Gull "  at  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre  in  December,  1898,  and  that  of  Baron 
Tuzenbach  in  "  The  Three  Sisters  "  in  February,  1901. 
After  his  break  with  Stanislavsky  and  realism,  and  a 
series  of  independent  productions  in  Poltava  and  other 
cities  in  the  south  of  Russia,  he  became  regisseur  for 
the  Theatre  of  Vera  Kommissarzhevskaya  in  Petro- 
grad  from  the  autumn  of  1906  through  the  winter  of 
1907-1908,  one  of  the  most  notable  episodes  of  the 
modern  Russian  stage  in  spite  of  its  brief  life.  For 
her  he  produced  a  wide  range  of  plays,  including 
Youshkyevitch's  "  In  the  City " ;  Pshibuishevsky's 
"The  Endless  Story";  Maeterlinck's  "Sister  Bea- 
trice "  and  "  Pelleas  and  Melisande " ;  Alexander 
Blok's  "The  Little  Booth";  Hugo  von  Hofmanns- 
thal's  "  The  Marriage  of  Zobeide  ";  Ibsen's  "  A  Doll's 
House";  Andreieff's  "The  Life  of  Man";  Wede- 
kind's  "The  Awakening  of  Spring";  and  Sologub's 
"  The  Triumph  of  Death."  In  the  autumn  of  1908,  he 
went  to  the  imperial  theatres  of  Petrograd,  the  Alex- 
andrinsky  and  the  Marinsky,  where  for  a  decade  he  has 
been  the  most  influential  and  distinguished  of  their 
staff  of  regisseurs.  His  productions  there  have  been 
many  and  varied,  including  Knud  Hamsun's  "  At  the 
Tsar's  Door  " ;  Wagner's  "  Tristan  and  Isolde  " ;  Mo- 
liere's  "  Don  Juan  " ;  Musorgsky's  "  Boris  Godunoff  " ; 
Byelyaieff 's  "  The  Red  Tavern  " ;  Tolstoy's  "  The  Liv- 
ing Corpse  ";  Gluck's  "  Orpheus  ";  Sologub's  "  Host- 

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Meyerhold  and  the  Theatre  Theatrical 

ages  of  Life  ";  "  Maskarad  "  by  Lyermontoff  and  Glaz- 
unoff ;  "  Elektra  "  by  von  Hofmannsthal  and  Strauss; 
Gluck's  "  Queen  of  the  May  " ;  "  The  Stone  Guest  "  by 
Pushkin  and  Dargomuizhsky ;  Rimsky-KorsakofFs 
"  Snyegurotchka  "  or  "  The  Snow  Maiden  " ;  and  Os- 
trovsky's  "  The  Thunderstorm."  In  all  these  pro- 
ductions of  his  decade  and  a  half  as  regisseur,  Meyer- 
hold  has  commanded  the  services  of  the  leading  ar- 
tists of  Russia  for  his  scenic  backgrounds.  Many 
moods  and  many  men,  is  the  story  of  his  collaboration. 
In  recent  seasons,  he  has  worked  almost  solely  with 
Golovin,  but  the  list  of  those  who  preceded  Golovin 
presents  such  names  as  Anisfeld,  Bondy,  Sudeykin, 
Kulbin,  Shervashidze,  Korovin,  Sapunoff,  Bilibin,  Den- 
isoff  and  Dobuzhinsky. 

In  the  controversy  between  the  players  and  A.  V. 
Lunatcharsky,  Bolshevik  Kommissar  of  Education  in 
charge  of  the  state  theatres,  which  rent  the  peace  of 
those  institutions  in  Petrograd  through  the  winter  of 
1917-1918,  Meyerhold  held  aloof.  He  was  extremely 
reticent  in  conversation  concerning  his  political  convic- 
tions, and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  where  his  sympathies  lie. 
While  some  of  the  leading  artists  refused  to  work  un- 
der the  new  regime,  Meyerhold  went  energetically 
about  his  tasks  as  regisseur  as  if  there  had  been  no 
change  in  governmental  authority.  If  he  chafed  un- 
der the  awkwardness  of  some  of  the  new  regulations, 
he  was  too  shrewd  to  confess  it.  With  his  sensitive 
nature  and  his  keen  imagination,  he  combines  a  prac- 
tical understanding  of  human  affairs,  and  he  knows 

219 


The  Russian  Theatre 


that  as  the  world  runs  to-day  the  artist  should  be  happy 
if  he  is  simply  permitted  to  go  ahead  with  his  work, 
even  if  meddlesome  officials  of  Tsar  or  of  Soviet  in- 
terpose in  the  matter  of  mechanism. 


220 


CHAPTER   XIV 

YEVREYNOFF  AND  MONODRAMA 

OF  all  the  notable  figures  of  the  contemporary  Rus- 
sian theatre,  the  only  one  whem  I  had  to  cultivate  by 
proxy  was  Nikolai  Nikolaievitch  Yevreynoff.  Fortu- 
nately for  the  completeness  of  my  record,  this  anarch  of 
the  drama  and  proponent  of  a  new  way  of  thinking 
the  theatre  has  written  voluminously  of  his  aims 
and  his  theories  and  has  stimulated  others  by  the  vi- 
rility of  those  theories  to  write  about  him.  Soon  after 
I  had  settled  down  in  Moscow,  I  found  in  one  of  the 
book  stores  the  third  volume  of  his  "  Teatr  dlya  Sye- 
bya",  "The  Theatre  for  One's  Self."  Volumes  one 
and  two  were  out  of  print,  and  a  diligent  search 
through  the  second-hand  stalls  failed  to  disclose  them. 
Kamyensky's  biography,  "  The  Book  about  Yevreyn- 
off ",  was  out  of  print,  too,  but  I  turned  up  a  copy  in  a 
little  shop  in  the  Leontyevsky  Pereulok. 

In  Petrograd  I  fared  better.  From  the  publisher, 
Mme.  Butkovskaya,  I  obtained  the  first  volume  of 
"  The  Theatre  for  One's  Self  "  and  some  of  the  earlier 
plays,  but  no  amount  of  coaxing  could  extract  from 
the  shelves  the  last  remaining  copy  of  the  second  vol- 
ume. Russian  good  will,  however,  came  to  my  rescue, 
for  one  evening  Meyerhold  broke  his  set  and  graciously 

221 


The  Russian  Theatre 


presented  to  me  his  own  copy.  "  There  will  be  an- 
other edition  —  some  day.  And  I  shall  be  here  where 
it  will  be  easy  to  replace  it,"  he  said.  And  then,  by 
sheer  chance,  during  those  frantic  days  of  February 
and  March,  1918,  while  the  Germans  were  pounding  at 
the  door  of  the  capital,  I  came  to  know  briefly  but  in- 
timately Natalia,  the  charming  sister  of  Nikolai,  and 
from  her  I  rounded  out  the  data  regarding  her  absent 
brother  which  I  had  already  obtained  from  Kamyen- 
sky's  monograph  and  from  conversations  in  Moscow 
with  the  biographer. 

Nikolai  Nikolaievitch  is  in  his  early  prime,  for  he 
was  born  February  26,  1879,  and  yet  he  has  accom- 
plished already  a  lifetime  of  work.  From  his  first 
visit  to  a  playhouse  at  the  age  of  five,  when  he  saw 
"  Girofle-Girofla  "  at  Yekaterinburg,  he  was  lured  to 
the  stage,  and  he  straightway  established  his  own  thea- 
tre in  his  home.  There  at  the  age  of  seven  he  pro- 
duced his  first  dramatic  composition,  "  A  Dinner  with 
the  Minister  of  State."  Music  attracted  him,  too,  and 
he  soon  became  an  expert  on  the  flute.  At  the  gymna- 
sium in  Pskoff,  he  won  a  reputation  as  a  humorist  and 
he  read  much,  falling  under  the  influence  of  Mayne 
Reid  and  writing  his  first  novel  at  the  age  of  thirteen. 
About  this  time,  too,  he  joined  a  circus  and  performed 
as  an  equilibrist  near  Pskoff  under  the  pseudonym  of 
Boklaro,  remaining  with  the  troupe  when  it  played  at 
the  School  of  Law  in  Petrograd  the  following  autumn. 
When  he  was  fourteen,  he  acted  in  a  theatre  in  Pskoff 
under  the  name  of  Gorkin.  In  the  seventh  class  of  the 

222 


Yevreynojj  and  Monodrama 


gymnasium  he  conceived  a  plan  to  flee  to  America,  but 
he  had  been  deeply  impressed  by  reading  Stanley's 
African  travels,  and  when  he  found  how  many  others 
were  going  to  America,  he  changed  his  scheme  and  for 
the  sake  of  originality  substituted  Africa  for  the  west- 
ern hemisphere. 

The  family  now  moved  to  a  datcha  or  summer  home 
at  Pushkino  near  Moscow,  and  Nikolai  surrendered  his 
dreams  of  adventure  to  go  to  the  School  of  Law  in 
Petrograd,  where  he  soon  found  outlet  for  his  instinct 
for  the  theatre  in  the  Legal  Dramatic  Circle.  There 
he  appeared  in  "  The  Robbers  "  and  played  the  role 
of  GJumoff  in  Ostrovsky's  "  Enough  Stupidity  in 
Every  Wise  Man."  There,  too,  he  produced  his  own 
play,  "  The  Rehearsal ",  and  his  first  serious  musical 
composition,  the  opera  "  The  Power  of  Magic."  His 
father,  a  narrow-minded  tchinovnik  or  petty  official, 
refused  longer  to  support  him,  and  so  Nikolai  went  to 
Libau  to  teach,  continuing  his  legal  studies  in  Petro- 
grad at  intervals.  He  wrote  another  play  at  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  "  Fools  as  Blind  Idols  ",  and  then  in  the 
following  year,  1901,  he  was  graduated  from  the  law 
school  with  a  silver  medal.  A  post  in  the  Ministry  of 
Ways  and  Communications  thenceforth  for  the  next 
decade  kept  him  financially  independent  and  gave  him 
time  to  continue  his  studies  and  his  writing  and  to 
direct  his  own  plays  and  those  of  others  in  the  Petro- 
grad theatres. 

In  music,  Yevreynoff's  master  at  the  Conservatory 
was  Rimsky-Korsakoff ;  in  history  at  the  University, 

22} 


The  Russian  Theatre 


G.  I.  Senigoff ;  and  in  philosophy,  Arsenius  Vvedensky. 
From  the  age  of  fifteen  he  had  tended  toward  atheism 
in  his  beliefs,  and  at  eighteen  he  was  deeply  affected 
by  reading  Nietzsche.  The  death  of  a  friend  when  he 
was  twenty  brought  about  a  reaction,  and  under  the 
influence  of  Prince  V.  Y.  Golitsuin  he  became  a  close 
student  of  the  Gospels. 

In  the  decade  following  his  graduation  from  the 
University,  Yevreynoff's  activity  in  the  theatre  stead- 
ily increased.  In  1902,  he  wrote  a  three-act  comedy, 
"  The  Foundation  of  Happiness  ",  an  episode  in  the  life 
of  gravediggers,  produced  in  1905  at  the  New  Theatre 
in  Petrograd  with  L.  V.  Yavorsky  in  the  leading  role. 
A  one-act  comedy,  "  Styopik  and  Manyourotchka  ", 
was  written  and  played  in  1905  at  the  Alexandrinsky 
Theatre,  and  "  The  Handsome  Despot "  at  the  Small 
Theatre  in  Petrograd  in  1906.  Yavorsky  presented  his 
"  War  "  in  Tiflis  and  elsewhere.  Still  other  composi- 
tions of  the  period  from  1904  to  1906  were  "  Grand- 
mother ",  published  in  the  newspaper  Novoe  Vremya 
and  played  for  the  first  time  at  the  Marinsky  in  1907; 
"  Plutus  "  of  Aristophanes,  adapted  to  contemporary 
conditions;  and  "  Such  a  Woman  ",  produced  in  1908 
at  the  Small  Theatre  in  Petrograd.  Some  of  the  more 
important  plays  of  this  earlier  period  were  gathered  to- 
gether in  a  volume  in  1907 :  "  The  Foundation  of  Hap- 
piness ",  "  Styopik  and  Manyourotchka  ",  "  The  Hand- 
some Despot  "  and  "  War."  And  in  the  same  year  he 
led  in  the  founding  of  the  Starinny  Teatr  or  Old  Thea- 
tre, of  which  he  was  regisseur  during  the  seasons  of 

224 


Yevreynqff  and  Monodrama 


1907-1908  and  1911-1912  and  where  his  aim  was  to 
restore  the  old  historic  Russian  stage. 

Recognition  of  Yevreynoff's  growing  importance 
came  when  he  was  chosen  in  1908  as  the  successor  to 
Meyerhold  in  the  post  of  regisseur  of  Vera  Kommiss- 
arzhevskaya's  theatre  in  Petrograd.  For  her,  during 
the  season  of  1908-1909,  he  produced  "  Francesca  da 
Rimini ",  Sologub's  "  Vanka  the  Butler  and  Page 
Jean  "  and  Oscar  Wilde's  "  Salome  ",  removed  by  the 
police  from  the  repertory  after  the  dress  rehearsal.  In 
the  spring  of  1909,  Yevreynoff  joined  with  Fyodor 
Kommissarzhevsky,  the  actress's  brother,  in  organ- 
izing the  Gay  Theatre  for  Grown-up  Children  in  Petro- 
grad, where  he  produced  his  harlequinade,  "  Gay 
Death."  In  the  same  year  he  made  his  first  experiment 
with  the  nude  on  the  stage  by  producing  Sologub's 
"  Night  Hops  ",  in  which  a  number  of  well  known  poets 
and  artists  took  part,  and  later  he  took  charge  of  several 
private  productions  for  the  circle  of  Baroness  Budberg 
in  Moscow.  His  work  in  the  theatre  now  occupied 
most  of  his  time  and  in  the  fall  of  1910  he  left  his 
position  in  the  Ministry  of  Ways  and  Communications 
and  became  principal  regisseur  of  the  theatre  Krivoye 
Zerkalo  or  the  Crooked  Looking-Glass,  where  he  re- 
mained actively  in  charge  until  the  spring  of  1914  and 
with  which  he  retained  an  interest  until  he  left  for  the 
Caucasus  in  the  winter  of  1917-1918. 

During  these  years,  too,  he  had  been  teacher,  musi- 
cian, composer  and  artist.  From  1908  to  1911  he  di- 
rected a  dramatic  studio  in  Petrograd  in  which  his  task 

225 


The  Russian  Theatre 


had  been  to  develop  the  theatrical  intellectuality,  the 
technique,  the  taste  and  the  musical  and  plastic  execu- 
tion of  the  artists  for  the  Theatre  of  the  Future.  As 
an  artist,  he  contributed  in  the  spring  of  1910  a  futur- 
ist painting,  "  The  Dancing  Spaniard  ",  to  the  exhibi- 
tion Treugolnik,  or  Triangle,  founded  by  N.  I.  Kulbin. 
As  a  composer  he  added  to  his  earlier  work  an  opera 
bouffe,  "  The  Rape  of  the  Sabine  Women  " ;  a  lyric- 
naturalistic  opera,  "  Sweet  Cake ",  produced  at  the 
Crooked  Looking-Glass  in  November,  1912;  an  oper- 
etta unusual  in  musical  design,  "  The  Fugitive  ",  pro- 
duced at  the  Palace  Theatre  in  Petrograd  in  November, 
1913;  a  group  of  Second-Polkas;  a  Lullaby,  a  friendly 
parody  on  Chopin;  and  Strange  Romances,  a  series  of 
songs.  Other  diversions  were  the  preparation  of  a 
record  which  he  called  "  Serf  Actors  "  and  a  "  History 
of  Corporal  Punishment  in  Russia  ",  the  composition 
of  a  Monograph  on  Aubrey  Beardsley  for  a  series  pub- 
lished by  Mme.  Butkovskaya,  and  the  publication  under 
his  editorship  of  "  The  Nude  on  the  Stage." 

The  idea  of  monodrama  as  a  new  way  of  conceiving 
the  theatre  began  to  take  form  in  Yevreynoff's  mind 
over  a  decade  ago.  "  An  Introduction  to  Mono- 
drama  ",  first  published  in  Petrograd  by  Mme.  Butkov- 
skaya in  1909,  was  originally  read  by  the  author  before 
the  Literary  and  Artistic  Circle  in  Moscow,  December 
29,  1908,  and  in  Petrograd  in  the  Theatre  Club,  March 
6,  and  in  the  theatre  of  Vera  Kommissarzhevskaya, 
March  17,  1909.  His  first  play  embodying  his  new 
theory  of  the  drama  was  "The  Representation  of 

226 


Yevreynoff  and  Monodrama 


Love  ",  produced  at  the  Studio  of  the  Impressionists 
in  Petrograd  in  1910.  In  1912,  another  monodrama 
was  disclosed  on  the  stage  of  the  Crooked  Looking- 
Glass,  "  The  Greenroom  of  the  Soul  ",  or  "  The  Thea- 
tre of  the  Soul ",  as  some  have  translated  it,  in  which 
the  action  takes  place  in  the  chest  of  the  body.  In 
the  same  year,  too,  appeared  his  bouffonnerie  on  "  Re- 
vizor" 

The  development  of  the  theory  of  monodrama  pro- 
ceeded, and  in  1913  Mme.  Butkovskaya  published  for 
Yevreynoff  his  "Teatr  kak  Takavoi"  ("  The  Theatre 
as  Such  "),  with  illustrations  drawn  by  Kulbin.  This 
volume  dealt  with  the  theatricalization  of  life  and  ad- 
vanced the  view  that  the  inborn  instinct  of  theatrical- 
ity lives  beside  that  of  self-preservation  and  sex,  etc. ; 
that  the  uprooting  of  this  instinct  is  equal  to  physical 
castration;  that  the  satisfaction  of  this  instinct  is  one 
of  the  eudynamic  stages,  so  far  as  happiness  is  under- 
stood to  be  one  of  the  needs  of  the  soul ;  and  that  man 
is  touched  to  the  quick  only  by  that  which  he  is  able 
to  theatricalize.  The  dialectic  was  carried  still  far- 
ther in  the  fall  of  1913  by  the  publication  of  "Pro 
Scena  Sua." 

In  1914  there  appeared  the  second  volume  of  his  col- 
lected plays,  the  more  important  ones  which  had  gath- 
ered since  the  publication  of  the  first  volume  in  1907. 
The  volume  includes :  "  The  Fair  at  the  Indiction  of  St. 
Denis  " ;  "  Unalterable  Treason  " ;  "  Three  Sorcerers  ", 
produced  December  20,  1907,  at  the  Old  Theatre  in 
Petrograd ;  "  Such  a  Woman  ",  produced  September 

227 


The  Russian  Theatre 


15,  1908,  at  the  Small  Theatre  in  Petrograd;  "  Grand- 
mother ",  produced  February  9,  1907,  at  the  Marinsky 
Theatre;  and  "  Gay  Death  ",  produced  April  13,  1909, 
at  the  Gay  Theatre,  and  revived  in  November,  1911, 
at  the  Liteiny  Theatre  and  in  November,  1912,  at  the 
Theatre  Nezlobina  in  Petrograd. 

The  full  and  complete  development  of  YevreynofFs 
theory  of  monodrama  as  well  as  his  critical  opinion  of 
all  other  forms  of  the  theatre  and  their  apologists  is 
contained  in  the  three  volumes  of  his  greatest  work  in 
dialectic,  "  Teatr  dlya  Syebya"  ("The  Theatre  for 
One's  Self"),  the  first  of  which  was  published  by 
Mme.  Butkovskaya  in  1915,  the  second  in  1916  and  the 
third  after  the  Revolution  in  1917.  The  first  volume 
is  characterized  by  the  author  as  "  theoretical ",  the 
second  as  "  pragmatical  "  and  the  third  as  "  practical." 
For  its  daring  and  confident  advocacy  of  a  new  way  of 
thinking  the  theatre,  for  the  breadth  of  its  knowl- 
edge of  the  drama  and  the  theatre  in  all  countries  and 
all  times,  for  its  eager  enthusiasm  in  the  theatre  and  for 
its  whimsical  imagination,  it  is  the  most  important  con- 
tribution to  the  discussion  of  the  drama  since  Craig 
published  "On  the  Art  of  the  Theatre."  No  sum- 
mary, no  characterization  can  do  it  justice.  It  must 
be  translated  and  published  in  full  before  its  import 
can  be  appreciated.  Weathering  the  storms  of  war  and 
revolution  which  broke  over  Russia  with  a  fury  in- 
comprehensible to  us,  "  The  Theatre  for  One's  Self  " 
overcame  all  odds  and  found  its  way  to  type  and  to  the 
debate  and  discussion  which  follow  type.  For  us,  it 

228 


Yevreynoff  and  Monodrama 


remains  an  untapped  reservoir,  big  with  inspiration  for 
the  few  and  with  exasperation  for  the  many,  for  Ni- 
kolai Nikolaievitch  Yevreynoff  smashes  idols  with  the 
courteous  ruthlessness  of  Edward  Gordon  Craig. 

With  his  fecund  pen,  Yevreynoff  has  always  kept 
far  ahead  of  his  publisher.  As  a  result,  he  has  ready 
for  the  printer  the  manuscripts  for  an  exhaustive  sur- 
vey of  scenic  setting,  "  Russian  Theatrical  Decorative 
Art  ",  to  be  completed  in  five  volumes  with  illustrations 
under  the  editorial  supervision  of  Mstislaff  Valeriano- 
vitch  Dobuzhinsky ;  the  first  volume  of  "  The  Russian 
Ceremonial  Theatre  ",  connected  with  "  the  dressed-up 
goat  and  the  origin  of  ancient  Russian  tragedy  " ;  "A 
Manuscript  Concerning  Portrait  Painters  ",  treating 
the  problem  of  subjectivism  in  art;  "  The  Distress  of  a 
Gentleman",  a  novel;  "An  Exposition  of  Art",  an 
esthetic  treatise;  and  a  third  volume  of  his  collected 
dramatic  compositions  to  include  "  The  Greenroom  of 
the  Soul  ",  the  burlesque  on  "  Revizor  ",  "  The  Kitchen 
of  Laughter  ",  "  The  Fourth  Wall  "  and  "  The  School 
of  the  Stars." 

Of  all  Yevreynoff's  prolific  output,  only  a  small  frac- 
tion has  been  made  available  in  other  languages.  So 
far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover,  the  only  published 
translations  of  his  plays  or  his  dialectics  are  as  fol- 
lows :  "  The  Greenroom  of  the  Soul  "  into  English, 
French  and  German;  "  Gay  Death  ",  the  harlequinade, 
into  English  and  German;  "Such  a  Woman"  into 
German;  and  "  An  Introduction  to  Monodrama  "  into 
English. 

229 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Although  he  had  to  forego  his  dreams  of  adventur- 
ous travel  in  his  early  youth,  Yevreynoff  in  recent  years 
has  wandered  zealously.  He  attended  the  Interna- 
tional Exposition  in  Rome  in  1910  and  saw  Naples, 
Vienna  and  Berlin  on  the  way.  The  wild  tribes  of 
Morocco  were  his  haunt  in  1913,  whence  he  went  by 
way  of  France  and  Spain.  Once  more  in  the  follow- 
ing year  he  went  to  Africa,  visiting  Constantinople, 
Smyrna  and  Athens  en  route  and  traversing  Egypt 
from  Cairo  to  Luxor.  He  has  not  neglected  his  own 
country,  for  in  search  of  the  native  folk  drama  of  his 
race  he  has  travelled  from  Archangel  to  Astrahan.  In 
the  summer  of  1914,  he  penetrated  to  the  secluded 
parts  of  the  governments  of  Kursk  and  Oryol  and 
Tamboff,  where  he  studied  the  ceremonial  rites  and 
games  in  preparation  for  "  The  Russian  Ceremonial 
Theatre  ",  the  idea  for  which  he  gained  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  when  he  was  invited  as  best  man  to  the  wed- 
ding of  a  friend  in  the  country  near  Tver.  Ever  since 
then,  one  of  his  most  ardent  dreams  has  been  to  bring 
about  a  creative  rebirth  of  national  Russian  drama. 

In  his  monograph,  "  An  Introduction  to  Mono- 
drama  ",  Yevreynoff  states  clearly  the  fundamental 
purposes  and  aspects  of  his  revolutionary  way  of 
thinking  the  theatre : 

"  The  cornerstone  of  monodrama  is  the  '  living  ex- 
perience '  of  the  acting  character  on  the  stage  resulting 
in  the  similar  '  living  experience  '  of  the  spectator,  who 
through  this  act  of  '  coordinate  living  experience '  be- 
comes one  with  the  acting  character.  .  .  . 

230 


Yevreynoff  and  Monodrama 


"  The  task  of  monodrama  is  to  carry  the  spectator 
to  the  very  stage  so  that  he  will  feel  that  he  is  acting 
himself.  .  .  . 

"  The  '  I '  (the  acting  character)  is  a  bridge  from 
the  auditorium  to  the  stage.  .  .  . 

"  The  spectator  must  know  from  the  programme 
with  whom  the  author  invites  him  to  have  a  common 
life,  in  whose  image  he  himself  must  appear." 

In  none  of  his  volumes  of  dialectic,  however,  has 
Yevreynoff  expressed  so  trenchantly  the  psychological 
basis  and  the  inherent  nature  of  monodrama  as  in  the 
preface  to  his  play,  "  The  Representation  of  Love." 
Therefore,  in  lieu  of  a  more  personal  analysis  of  the 
man  and  his  work,  denied  me  by  his  absence  in  the  in- 
accessible Caucasus,  I  present  a  free  translation  of  this 
preface,  taken  from  the  edition  published  in  Moscow 
in  1910: 

"  This  play  is  an  experiment  in  monodrama.  The 
latter,  as  an  architectonic  theory  of  the  drama  on  a  sub- 
jective impressionistic  basis,  came  as  a  result  of  the 
plot  of  the  play,  not  the  contrary.  It  is  not  the  theory 
which  came  before  the  artistic  creation.  I  consider  it 
necessary  to  make  this  observation  in  order  to  avoid 
the  accusation  of  preparing  a  play  according  to  for- 
mula. As  it  is  known,  many  plays  have  been  written 
according  to  my  '  recipe '  under  the  name  of  '  mono- 
dramas  ',  but  unfortunately  many  authors  took  up  my 
theory  superficially  and  in  their  productions  only  tried 
to  be  ahead  of  the  fashion. 

"  I  do  not  wish  such  followers. 
231 


The  Russian  Theatre 


"  '  The  Representation  of  Love  '  is,  indeed,  the  first 
example  of  an  exactly  constructed  monodrama. 

"  I  shall  recall  the  most  important  of  my  teachings 
concerning  monodrama. 

"  Our  soul  is  limited  in  its  capacity  for  receptivity. 
The  foundation  of  esthetic  contemplation  is  the  concen- 
tration of  the  attention  on  some  definite  individual  ob- 
ject. Moreover,  the  change  of  the  objects  of  our  con- 
centration results  in  weariness  of  the  soul-activity  and 
consequently  in  the  weakening  of  the  capacity  for  re- 
ceptivity. The  real  object  of  a  dramatic  representation 
ought  to  be  some  living  experience,  and  with  this,  for 
the  purpose  of  facilitating  the  receptivity,  the  living 
experience  of  one  soul  instead  of  several. 

"  Hence,  the  necessity  for  preferring  one  '  really  act- 
ing '  protagonist  to  several '  equally  acting  ',  —  in  other 
words,  the  logic  of  the  demand  for  such  an  '  acting 
character ',  in  whom  as  in  a  focus  should  be  concen- 
trated the  whole  drama  and  therefore  the  living  ex- 
perience of  the  other  acting  characters. 

"  In  addition,  variety  not  unified  splits  the  whole 
into  several  separate  less  strong  impressions  and  this 
prevents  the  appearance  of  the  most  significant  esthetic 
moment.  Therefore,  in  art  we  must  absolutely  try  to 
attain  variety  in  unity,  achieving  in  this  way  an  easily 
conceived  simplicity  and  thus  a  whole  impression  —  an 
esthetic  pledge  —  of  the  significant. 

"  What  I  have  said  indicates  the  steps  to  the  perfect 
drama,  —  monodrama. 

"  I  call  monodrama  the  kind  of  a  dramatic  repre- 
232 


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§  E 


Yevreynqff  and  Monodrama 


sentation  which  endeavors  with  the  greatest  fulness  to 
communicate  to  the  spectator  the  soul  state  of  the  act- 
ing character,  and  presents  on  the  stage  the  world  sur- 
rounding him  as  he  conceives  it  at  any  moment  in  his 
stage  experience.  Instead  of  the  old  incomplete 
drama,  I  propose  the  architectonics  of  a  drama  based 
on  the  principle  of  identifying  the  stage  with  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  acting  character. 

"  The  conversion  of  the  theatrical  spectacle  into  a 
drama  depends  on  the  living  experience,  the  contagious 
character  of  which,  calling  forth  in  me  a  coordinate 
living  experience,  changes  in  the  moment  of  the  stage 
action  a  '  drama  alien  to  me  '  into  '  my  own  drama.' 

"  The  stage  means  of  expression  of  the  dramatic 
experience  are  reduced,  as  we  know,  first  of  all  to 
words.  But  the  unsatisfactoriness  of  these  means  is 
evident;  he  who  attentively  analyzes  himself  in  the  par- 
terre of  the  theatre  acknowledges  that  we  hear  more 
with  the  eyes  than  with  the  ears ;  and  this  in  my  opinion 
is  in  the  nature  of  the  theatre. 

"  As  Pshibuishevsky  says,  '  There  is  no  possibility 
of  expressing  one's  self  in  words/  There  remain  ges- 
tures, artistically  expressive  gesticulation,  the  tongue 
of  movements  common  to  all  human  races,  mimicry  in 
the  broad  sense  of  the  word,  that  is,  the  art  of  repro- 
ducing with  one's  own  body  the  movements  expressing 
our  agitations  and  feelings.  Charles  Aubert  justly 
remarks  that  mimicry  predominantly  is  the  fundamen- 
tal element  of  the  theatre,  as  it  represents  by  that  means 
action,  that  is,  the  most  evident  part,  the  part  best  able 

233 


The  Russian  Theatre 


to  produce  an  impression  and  the  most  contagious  on 
the  ground  that  the  spectator  seeing  in  the  mimicry  a 
picture  of  a  more  or  less  deep  agitation  is  moved  by  the 
law  of  imitation  to  share  and  feel  the  same  agitation, 
the  signs  of  which  he  sees.  And  this  last  circumstance 
is  the  most  essential  in  the  theatre,  because  in  bringing 
about  a  coordinate  living  experience  with  the  acting 
character  it  establishes  in  this  very  way  the  change  of  the 
'drama  alien  to  me '  into  '  my  own  drama.'  But  even 
this  powerful  means  of  communion  of  the  stage  with 
the  spectators  is  limited,  as  we  know,  in  its  potency. 

'  Thus  we  see  productions  in  which  the  dramatist, 
unable  to  rely  on  the  mimic  art  of  the  actor,  adds  in 
certain  cases  to  the  words  of  the  most  vivid  expression 
and  to  the  detailed  directions  for  the  mimicry  of  the 
main  acting  character,  the  object  as  a  cause  of  the  given 
words  and  the  given  mimicry  in  all  the  clearness  of  its 
stage  personification.  Thus  in  a  whole  series  of 
dramas,  classic  as  well  as  modern,  the  feeling  of  terror 
is  sometimes  suggested  to  the  spectator  not  only  by 
word  and  mimicry  but  by  the  very  object  of  this  terror 
—  for  instance,  the  ghost  of  this  or  the  other  image  of 
hallucination.  The  object  of  the  dramatist  here  is 
clear :  in  order  that  the  spectator  may  have  at  a  given 
moment  nearly  the  same  experience  as  the  acting  char- 
acter, it  is  necessary  that  he  see  the  same  thing. 

"  In  such  cases  there  comes  a  moment  which  I  would 
call  monodramatic  in  spite  of  the  lack  of  preparation 
and  stage  groundwork.  Indeed,  why  is  the  spectator 
obliged  suddenly  to  look  upon  that  which  only  one  act- 

234 


Yevreynqff  and  Monodrama 


ing  character  sees  and  what  the  other  personages  of  the 
drama  do  not  notice  in  their  terror  at  perceiving  the  dis- 
figured features  of  the  one  who  has  seen  the  ghost? 
That  is  one  point;  in  the  second  place,  if  the  spectator 
must  see  only  that  which  the  terror-stricken  individual 
sees,  that  is,  the  image  of  the  ghost,  why  are  the  other 
acting  characters  shown  to  him,  those  personages 
whom  the  terror-stricken  individual  is  psychologically 
not  in  a  condition  to  see  in  all  their  clearness?  Not 
only  that,  but  why  does  the  room  or  the  plain  or  the 
forest  —  the  place  of  the  appearance  of  the  ghost  — 
not  change  at  the  moment  of  suggestion  of  terror  in 
his  features;  why  do  the  coloring  and  the  light  remain 
unchanged,  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened  and, 
though  seized  with  unspeakable  fear,  he  continued  to 
see  their  impassive  contours  ? 

"  This  is  not  yet  monodrama.  Monodrama  must 
present  the  exterior  spectacle  in  correspondence  with 
the  internal  spectacle.  This  is  the  whole  essence  of  it. 

"  Monodrama  forces  every  one  of  the  spectators  to 
enter  the  situation  of  the  acting  character,  to  live  his 
life,  that  is  to  say,  to  feel  as  he  does  and  through  illu- 
sion to  think  as  he  does.  Consequently,  first  of  all,  it 
is  necessary  for  him  to  see  and  to  hear  the  same  as  the 
acting  character.  The  cornerstone  of  monodrama  is 
the  living  experience  of  the  acting  character  on  the 
stage  dependent  on  the  identical  coordinate  living  ex- 
perience of  the  spectator  who  by  this  act  of  coordinate 
experience  becomes  a  similar  acting  character.  To 
convert  the  spectator  into  an  illusory  acting  character 

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is  the  important  problem  of  monodrama.  For  this, 
there  must  be  on  the  stage  first  of  all  only  one  subject 
of  acting,  and  not  only  for  the  reasons  that  have  been 
set  forth  in  the  beginning  but  also  because  monodrama 
has  for  its  purpose  to  present  such  an  external  spectacle 
as  will  correspond  to  the  inner  spectacle  of  the  subject 
of  acting;  for  to  be  present  at  once  at  two  spectacles 
is  not  within  our  weak  powers. 

"  In  order  that  the  spectator  should  be  able  to  say  to 
himself  on  this  or  the  other  occasion  together  with  the 
one  acting  on  the  stage  '  Yes  '  or  '  No  ',  it  is  not  suffi- 
cient for  the  spectator  to  see  the  eloquent  figure  of  the 
actor,  to  hear  his  expressive  voice  and  to  know  that  it 
is  he  who  speaks  in  the  room.  It  is  necessary  further 
to  show,  at  least  by  a  hint,  the  relation  of  the  actor  to 
the  surrounding  setting.  We  often  say  '  Yes  '  instead 
of  '  No '  when  the  sun  shines,  but  it  shines  sometimes 
in  our  soul  more  brilliantly  than  in  the  sky,  and  this 
sunshine,  not  less  than  the  real  sunshine,  may  lighten 
up  with  royal  comfort  our  miserable  setting.  I  may 
utter  my  '  Yes  '  or  '  No  '  in  deep  meditation,  distant  in 
my  thoughts  from  this  setting.  Then  it  is  as  if  this 
setting  would  disappear;  it  veils  itself  by  my  indiffer- 
ence to  it.  Is  it  possible  that  Hamlet  uttering  '  To  be  or 
not  to  be '  sees  at  this  moment  the  desperate  luxury 
of  the  palace  ornaments?  And  you,  true  people  of  the 
theatre,  did  you  not  become  angry  in  such  a  moment 
at  the  intrusive  brilliance  of  these  requisites  of  luxury, 
at  all  this  useless  clearness  of  contours  unintelligible  to 
Hamlet? 

"  To  every  psychologist  it  is  elemental  that  the  world 

236 


Yevreynqff  and  Monodrama 


surrounding  us,  thanks  to  the  sense  impressions,  inevi- 
tably undergoes  changes;  and  the  idea  that  the  object 
has  in  it  inherently  that  which  in  reality  it  borrows 
from  the  impressionable  subject  is  not  some  exceptional 
psychological  phenomenon.  All  our  sense  activity  is 
subject  to  the  process  of  the  projection  of  purely  sub- 
jective changes  upon  the  outside  object.  I  do  not 
know  what  is  the  color  of  cherries.  I  only  know  that 
in  my  eyes  they  are  red.  Do  your  eyes  color  them 
exactly  in  the  same  shade  as  mine?  I  do  not  know. 
I  only  know  that  the  Daltonists  color  them  in  green. 
We  seem  to  think  that  the  world  in  itself  is  full  of 
sounds,  although  the  sounds  as  well  as  the  colors  are 
nothing  else  than  our  subjective  transmutations  of  ex- 
ternal facts.  That  which  in  inanimate  objects  sud- 
denly stands  out  in  the  quality  of  animated  force  is  not 
so  strange  according  to  the  explanation  of  K.  Groose, 
because  this  animated  force  is  our  own  familiar  *  I ' 
with  all  its  peculiarities ;  here,  according  to  the  just  re- 
mark of  Fisher,  '  the  borrowing  of  souls  '  goes  on;  we 
seem  to  loan  the  necessary  particle  of  our  soul  to  the 
object,  inanimate  by  its  nature,  for  the  time  of  the 
impression. 

"  The  surrounding  world  seems  to  borrow  its  char- 
acter from  the  subjective  individual '  I ' ;  and  we  under- 
stand what  Goethe  meant  in  saying  of  Hebel  that  the 
latter  gave  nature  a  great  deal  of  the  *  peasant  quality.' 
Nature  can  be  peasant-like,  when  Hebel  perceives  it, 
but  it  can  be  chivalrously  beautiful  when  Wolfram  von 
Eschenbach  perceives  it.  And  it  changes  together  with 

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us,  with  our  soul-mood.  The  cheerful  meadow,  field 
and  forest  which  I  admire,  sitting  free  from  care  be- 
side my  sweetheart,  will  become  a  bright  green  spot, 
yellow  furrows,  and  dark  age,  only  if  at  that  moment 
I  be  notified  of  a  misfortune  that  has  happened  to  some 
one  near  to  me.  And  the  author  of  the  perfect  drama 
in  the  sense  I  understand  it  will  fix  in  a  remark  these 
two  moments  of  the  setting  surrounding  us;  pedanti- 
cally he  will  demand  from  the  decorator  an  instanta- 
neous change  of  the  cheerful  landscape  to  a  stupid  com- 
bination of  tiresome  green,  disquieting  yellow  and 
gloomy  olive  colors,  and  he  will  be  right  in  his  pedantry. 
"  The  artist  of  the  stage  by  no  means  should  show  on 
it  in  his  '  drama  '  the  objects  such  as  they  are  in  them- 
selves, —  when  they  are  represented  as  they  are  per- 
ceived, reflecting  some  '  I ',  his  torment,  his  joy,  his 
wrath,  his  indifference,  only  then  will  they  become  or- 
ganic parts  of  that  desired  whole  which  we  truly  have 
a  right  to  call  perfect  drama.  In  expressing  one's  self 
imaginatively,  the  blood  of  the  acting  character  must 
circulate  in  the  objects  on  the  stage  and  a  very  stony 
stone  must  not  remain  silent  beside  the  acting  char- 
acter. The  revolver  when  I  admire  it  as  a  brilliant  toy 
is  not  the  same  as  when  as  a  task  I  clean  it  for  my 
master,  and  it  is  certainly  not  the  same  as  when  I  take 
it  up  in  order  to  shoot  myself;  on  what  ground  on  all 
these  three  occasions  do  they  show  me  from  the  stage 
the  same  terribly  coarse,  meaningless  weapon!  Why, 
I  was  promised  a  drama  and  not  merely  a  '  show  ',  was 
I  not?  I  wish  to  live  the  same  life  with  the  acting 

238 


Yevreynoff  and  Monodrama 


character  —  the  moment  of  the  deepest  identity  with 
him  has  come!  So  do  not  turn  me  aside,  do  not 
dampen  my  interest  by  showing  me  your  '  criminal ' 
properties ! 

"  *  But  this  is  conventionality ! '  will  cry  out  our 
theatrical  air  brakes,  '  and  a  necessary  conventionality 
which  can  not  stand  in  the  way  of  the  spectator  who 
has  tuned  his  mind  in  unison  with  the  soul  of  the  acting 
character.  Such  a  spectator  who  is  meeting  the  design 
of  the  author  sees  the  object  in  the  real  light,  because  he 
can  easily  imagine  the  aspect  of  the  object  just  as  it 
should  be  from  the  course  of  the  play.'  But  in  such  a 
case,  I  answer,  it  is  not  necessary  to  show  anything! 
It  is  much  easier  to  imagine  all  this,  if  no  obstacles  are 
put  in  the  way  of  the  imagination ! 

"  I  repeat  —  we  come  to  the  theatre  first  of  all  as 
spectators,  and  then  as  listeners;  and  everything  that 
is  most  essential  we  wish  by  all  means  to  see,  to  con- 
template with  our  bodily  and  our  spiritual  eye.  Give 
us,  then,  this  satisfaction,  if  it  is  a  stage  and  not  a  pul- 
pit nor  a  concert  platform ! 

"  In  the  end  it  must  be  clear  to  the  dramatist  that 
if  he  wishes  to  represent  the  life  of  the  spirit,  he  must 
deal  not  with  external  realities  but  with  the  internal 
reflections  of  the  real  objects,  because  for  the  psy- 
chology of  a  given  person  his  subjective  perception  of 
the  real  object  is  important  but  not  the  object  in  a  re- 
lation indifferent  to  him. 

"  Thus  far  we  have  spoken  of  the  decorative  change, 
as  of  the  natural  result  of  a  given  emotion,  of  a  given 

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soul-state  which  on  stage  presentation  causes  the  spec- 
tator to  have  the  desired  fulness  of  coordinate  living 
experience  with  the  acting  character.  In  this  manner, 
the  motive  of  the  decorative  metamorphosis  must  be 
understood.  But  some  of  our  emotions,  our  feelings, 
are  so  tenaciously  associated  with  this  or  the  other 
characteristic  of  the  surrounding  setting  that  some- 
times we  find  out  the  cause  from  the  results. 

"  The  psychologist  Ribot  in  his  teaching  about  char- 
acter takes  note  of  the  following  significant  fact:  'If 
we  assume  for  some  time  a  sad  pose  we  may  feel  that 
sadness  has  taken  possession  of  us;  in  joining  a  cheer- 
ful company  and  imitating  its  external  ways  we  can 
bring  out  in  ourselves  a  momentary  cheerfulness.  If 
you  give  the  hand  of  the  hypnotized  man  a  threatening 
position  with  a  tightened  fist,  then  as  a  complement  to 
that  position  naturally  comes  a  corresponding  mimicry 
of  the  face  and  movements  of  other  parts  of  the  body. 
Here  the  cause  appears  as  the  motion  and  the  result  the 
emotion.  In  such  a  way,  concludes  Ribot,  there  exists 
an  uninterrupted  association  between  certain  move- 
ments and  emotions  corresponding  to  them.  More- 
over, not  only  the  definite  emotions  are  capable  of 
bringing  out  definite  movements,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
some  of  the  movements  of  the  subject  are  capable  of 
stirring  up  in  the  soul  emotions  corresponding  to  them. 
And  I  think  that  we  shall  not  go  out  of  the  limits  of 
experimental  psychology  if  we  shall  apply  the  concep- 
tion of  '  movement '  to  the  decorative  changes  in  a 
monodramatic  sense.  And  under  these  conditions  the 

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Yevreynojf  and  Monodrama 


gain  in  the  economy  of  time  —  a  circumstance  ex- 
tremely essential  for  the  perfect  drama  —  will  be  cer- 
tain ;  instantly  proceeding  from  the  result  to  the  cause, 
that  is  to  say,  from  the  given  character  of  the  setting 
to  the  soul-state  of  the  acting-person  which  brings  it 
about,  the  spectator  sometimes  will  not  need  at  all  a 
verbal  or  a  mimic  introduction  to  the  psychology  of 
the  acting  character.  Independently  of  the  rapidity 
and  the  exactness,  the  original  charm  of  such  a  short- 
ened presentation  of  the  living  experience  conies  as  an 
added  merit  of  the  monodramatic  method. 

"  As  explained  above,  all  our  sense  activity  is  sub- 
jected to  the  process  of  projection  of  our  purely  sub- 
jective changes  on  the  external  object.  In  the  category 
of  this  external  object,  monodrama  understands  not 
only  the  inanimate  entourage  of  the  acting  character, 
but  also  the  living  persons  surrounding  him. 

"  As  we  already  know,  in  the  perfect  drama,  becom- 
ing *  my  own  drama ',  only  one  acting  character 
is  possible;  in  the  strict  meaning  of  the  word  only  one 
subject  of  action  is  thinkable.  Only  with  him  do  I 
identify  myself,  only  from  his  point  of  view  do  I  per- 
ceive the  world  surrounding  him,  the  people  surround- 
ing him.  In  this  manner,  the  latter  must  present  them- 
selves to  us  through  the  prism  of  the  soul  of  the  acting 
character  himself;  in  other  words,  the  spectator  of  the 
monodrama  perceives  the  other  participants  in  the 
drama  as  they  are  reflected  in  the  subject  of  acting,  and 
consequently,  their  living  experience  having  no  inde- 
pendent meaning  on  the  stage,  they  seem  important 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


only  as  much  as  in  them  is  projected  the  perceiving  '  I ' 
of  the  subject  of  action.  On  this  ground,  we  can  not 
in  monodrama  recognize  any  importance  in  the  other 
acting  characters  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  and  we 
must  in  justice  set  them  up  as  objects  of  action,  under- 
standing the  word  '  action  '  in  the  sense  of  the  percep- 
tion of  them  and  the  relations  of  the  acting  character  to 
them.  It  is  not  important  here  what  they  say  and  how 
they  say  it,  but  that  which  the  acting  character  hears. 
How  they  look  by  themselves  remains  concealed;  we 
shall  see  them  only  in  the  aspects  in  which  they  pre- 
sent themselves  to  the  acting  character.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  the  latter  will  ascribe  to  them  attributes 
which  they  would  not  have  in  our  eyes.  They  will 
necessarily  present  themselves  to  us  transformed. 
They  will  be  unnoticed,  they  will  be  fused  with  the 
background  or  will  be  absorbed  by  it,  if  in  this  or  in 
other  moments  they  are  indifferent  to  the  acting  char- 
acter. They  will  efface  with  their  appearance  the  whole 
setting  if  the  acting  character  is  entirely  absorbed  in 
looking  at  them.  They  are  beautiful,  intelligent  and 
kind  if  the  acting  character  conceives  them  as  such  at 
the  moment,  and  they  appear  repulsively  ugly  if  the 
acting  character  is  disappointed  in  them  and  sees  them 
from  a  different  point  of  view. 

"  Finally,  which  is  self-understood  from  the  archi- 
tectonics of  monodrama,  the  acting  character  himself 
should  appear  before  us  such  as  he  sees  himself  in  any 
given  moment  of  his  stage  action.  Now,  our  bodily 
visibility  we  always  consider  as  something  both  '  ours  ' 

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Yevreynojf  and  Monodrama 


and  at  the  same  time  as  foreign  to  us;  in  this  way  we 
can  consider  ourselves  differently.  And  this  perma- 
nent or  variable  relation  to  one's  own  personality  must 
certainly  be  clearly  noted  in  monodrama  equally  with 
the  other  subjective  representations  of  the  main  acting 
character. 

"  Among  other  things,  monodrama  solves  one  of 
the  most  burning  problems  of  contemporary  art, 
namely,  the  problem  of  the  chilling  and  paralyzing  and 
distracting  influence  of  the  footlights.  To  abolish  the 
footlights  in  reality,  as  some  propose,  does  not  mean 
yet  to  abolish  them  in  our  imagination :  bad  experience 
will  indeed  compel  us  to  recreate  mentally  the  abolished 
border.  It  must  be  done  so  that  the  visible  should  be- 
come invisible,  that  the  existing  should  be  non-exist- 
ing. And  once  the  regisseur  will  attain  fusion  of  the 
*  I '  of  the  main  acting  character  with  the  '  I '  of  the 
spectator  by  the  illusory  images  of  the  main  acting 
character,  then  the  spectator,  as  if  happening  to  find 
himself  on  the  stage,  that  is,  in  the  place  of  action,  will 
lose  sight  of  the  footlights;  they  will  remain  behind 
him,  in  other  words,  they  will  destroy  themselves. 

"  In  speaking  of  the  architectonics  of  drama  on  the 
principle  of  stage  identity  with  the  personification  of 
the  acting  character,  I  underline  the  expression  '  stage 
identity  ',  as  antithetical  to  the  realistic  identity,  because 
I  know  very  well  that  if  the  method  of  art  generally 
presents  the  inevitable  and  at  the  same  time  desired 
simplification,  then  this  remains  steadfast  for  the  art 
of  the  stage. 

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"  In  getting  acquainted  with  '  The  Representation  of 
Love ',  the  reader  must  remember  that  in  the  stage 
directions  of  this  monodrama  are  included  only  the 
main  changes  of  the  world  surrounding  the  acting  '  I ' ; 
the  other  changes  (for  instance,  the  almost  uninter- 
rupted shifting  and  changing  of  the  decorations)  must 
be  understood  by  the  reader  according  to  the  course  of 
the  play. 

"  In  conclusion,  this  last  reservation : 

"  In  offering  monodrama  to  the  theatre  as  the  drama 
most  perfect  in  form,  I  by  no  means  exclude  by  this 
form  other  dramatic  representations.  He  who  is  ac- 
quainted with  my  '  Apology  for  Theatricality  '  will  cer- 
tainly understand  that  side  by  side  with  '  my  drama '  I 
can  not  help  acknowledging  also  the  '  spectacle  foreign 
to  me.'  Of  course,  in  this  '  spectacle  '  I  see  something 
far  from  the  model  of  the  contemporary  stage.  How- 
ever, I  shall  speak  about  it  in  another  place,  because  the 
study  of  a  theatrical  spectacle  as  of  something  satisfac- 
tory in  itself,  leads  us  into  a  domain  somewhat  differ- 
ent from  monodrama,  —  to  the  esthetics  of  free  stage 
arrangement." 


244 


CHAPTER   XV 
RUSSIAN  THEORIES  OF  THE  THEATRE 

THE  question  of  what  is  art  and  what  is  not  and  the 
various  theories  of  art,  and  of  the  theatre  in  particular, 
engage  the  whole  world  of  esthetics  to-day,  but  no- 
where is  the  controversy  more  intense  than  in  Russia. 
Proponents  and  practitioners  of  the  several  theories 
have  reached  clearer  conclusions  and  defend  those  con- 
clusions more  obstinately  in  Moscow  and  Petrograd 
than  anywhere  else.  In  the  heat  of  this  discussion  and 
dialectic,  the  normal  course  for  the  creative  artist  is 
to  choose  that  theory  which  permits  the  freest  outlet 
for  the  expression  of  his  imaginative  impulse.  Unless 
he  be  unusually  versatile,  he  is  wise  in  clinging  to  that 
manner  of  expression  which  is  most  natural  to  him,  for 
an  imposed  virtuosity  may  endanger  the  effectiveness 
of  those  gifts  which  he  possesses.  The  critic  and  the 
chronicler  of  the  theatre,  however,  face  the  necessity 
of  examining  all  theories  and  all  manners  impartially 
and  of  measuring  them  by  the  results  which  they  yield. 

The  catholicity  of  the  task  prescribed  for  the  critic 
is  vividly  sketched  in  a  letter  which  a  Hoosier  friend 
once  sent  me.  "  Why  all  this  jammering,"  he  wrote, 
"  as  to  whether  art  is  Fujiyama  seen  through  a  mist 
or  O'Toole's  alley  on  a  bright  day?  It  may  well  be 

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either  or  anything  between.  It  isn't  hollering  down 
a  rain  barrel  or  sniffing  the  pig  pen,  though  there  be 
them  who  like  to  holler  and  to  sniff.  The  frontiers 
of  art  are  about  as  fixed  as  the  corona  of  the  sun.  In- 
side are  Bach  and  Debussy  and  Piero  di  Cosimo  and 
Whistler  and  Rodin  and  a  trillion  littlenesses  and 
quaintnesses  and  vaguenesses  and  grandeurs.  It's 
partly  a  matter  of  dietary.  If  I  eat  meat  —  the  raw 
red  steak  of  my  uric  acidulate  countrymen  —  and  wash 
it  down  with  Java  and  prepare  the  scene  with  cocktails, 
esthetically  I  am  not  the  same  creature  I  was  on  milk 
and  the  material  egg.  The  Japanese  say  our  art  is  to 
them  '  gymnastic.'  Rice  and  fish  and  tea  and  pre- 
served ginger  and  sea  fogs  and  ancestor  worship. 
Why  quarrel  with  mean  annual  temperature,  humidity, 
the  neolithic  mammals  and  the  Mendelian  law?  I 
know  you  don't  and  I  suppose  it  would  spoil  a  lot  of 
copy  if  we  did  it.  Is  it  good  of  its  kind  and  has  the 
kind  any  human  significance?  " 

The  Russian  theatre  presents  a  fertile  field  for  the 
exercise  of  such  critical  generosity  and  breadth  of 
mind.  The  guest  of  its  artists  finds  his  mental  balance 
severely  tested  by  the  eagerness  with  which  each  of  the 
several  schools  seeks  to  convert  him  to  be  its  particular 
apologist.  It  does  not  suffice,  apparently,  to  acknowl- 
edge the  justice  and  the  plausibility  of  any  given 
viewpoint ;  you  must  reject  all  other  viewpoints  as  em- 
phatically as  do  those  who  practice  the  theory  in  sup- 
port of  which  your  sympathy  is  sought.  The  single- 
ness of  purpose  with  which  the  creative  artist  works 

246 


Russian  Theories  of  the  Theatre 


finds  it  difficult  to  understand  how  the  same  mind  can 
see  truth  in  what  he  is  doing  as  well  as  in  the  work  of 
his  most  bitter  opponent.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  all 
these  na'ive  efforts  to  corrupt  me,  I  found  truth  and 
beauty  in  almost  all  of  the  contending  camps  of  the 
Russian  theatre. 

In  a  detached  and  objective  view  of  the  contempo- 
rary Russian  stage,  three  personalities  and  their  esthet- 
ics stand  out  supreme  in  their  clear-cut  convictions,  in 
their  achievements  and  in  their  significance  for  any 
comprehensive  conception  of  the  art  of  the  theatre; 
Stanislavsky,  Meyerhold  and  Yevreynoff.  Others, 
like  Tairoff  of  the  Kamerny,  and  Kommissarzhevsky 
and  Youzhin,  are  necessary  for  the  completion  of  the 
picture,  but  they  contribute  nothing  so  vital,  so  indi- 
vidual to  that  picture. 

To  Stanislavsky  and  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  is 
due  the  recognition  in  Russia  that  there  is  a  problem 
of  the  theatre.  By  a  coincidence  similar  to  the  dis- 
covery of  the  theory  of  evolution  by  Darwin  and  Wal- 
lace, working  independently  of  each  other,  the  recogni- 
tion of  the  existence  of  a  problem  of  the  theatre  and 
the  comprehension  of  its  nature  came  almost  simultane- 
ously in  the  final  decade  of  the  nineteenth  century  to 
Craig  in  England,  to  Appia  in  Switzerland  and  to  Stan- 
islavsky in  Russia. 

Contrary  to  the  course  of  Craig  and  Appia,  who 
have  devoted  themselves  almost  wholly  to  the  develop- 
ment of  the  theory  of  the  problem,  Stanislavsky  has 
profited  by  the  Russian  encouragement  of  fresh  artistic 

247 


The  Russian  Theatre 


vision  and  has  spent  his  time  in  active  experiment  in 
the  theatre.  Of  argument  and  dialectic  he  has  pro- 
duced a  negligible  quantity.  For  a  long  time  he  has 
been  at  work  on  a  book  embodying  his  conception  of 
the  theatre,  but  composition  is  slow  and  difficult.  "  I 
write  one  page  a  year,"  he  says,  "  and  then  I  tear  it 
up !  "  His  expression,  he  fears,  is  artificial,  but  in 
this  he  is  probably  as  severe  to  himself  as  he  is  in  his 
acting.  Despite  his  literary  diffidence,  Stanislavsky 
is  an  intense  propagandist  for  his  theories,  spreading 
them  by  personal  contact  rather  than  by  the  printed 
page.  That  is  the  reason  why  he  plays  less  and  less 
each  season,  for  he  feels  it  his  duty  to  guide  and  in- 
fluence others.  Just  as,  in  the  early  days  of  his  career, 
the  actor  overshadowed  the  director,  so  now  in  recent 
seasons  the  teacher  overshadows  the  actor. 

Although,  with  Craig,  Stanislavsky  saw  the  problem 
of  the  theatre  as  a  revolt  against  the  dead  artificiality 
of  the  stage  of  the  nineteenth  century,  his  revolt  for 
the  most  part  has  taken  a  wholly  different  direction. 
Instead  of  trying  to  make  the  theatre  more  honestly 
theatrical,  he  has  sought  to  eliminate  from  it  all  trace 
of  the  theatrical,  to  perfect  its  illusions  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  it  more  and  more  representative  of  life. 
Realism  and  representation,  therefore,  are  his  actuat- 
ing theories,  but  he  has  understood  from  the  start  that 
realism  which  merely  copies  the  external  aspects  does 
not  represent  life.  There  is  a  hidden,  inner  psycholog- 
ical realism  or  naturalism,  a  spiritualized  realism, 
which  is  elusive  and  extremely  difficult  to  attain  but 

248 


Russian  Theories  of  the  Theatre 


which  goes  farther  than  the  most  faithful  reproduction 
of  exterior  aspects  toward  achieving  the  illusion  and 
the  interpretation  of  life.  The  aim  of  the  Art  Theatre, 
therefore,  has  been  to  reproduce  the  mood  of  a  given 
play  more  thoroughly,  more  accurately  than  ever  be- 
fore. 

Tchehoff's  dramas  gave  Stanislavsky  a  stimulating 
opportunity  to  embody  this  theory  of  the  theatre.  The 
motives  of  Tchehoff,  although  they  have  not  been  ap- 
plied blindly  to  all  other  productions  at  the  Art  Thea- 
tre, give  a  clue  to  the  aim  of  Stanislavsky  in  the  thea- 
tre. Those  motives  of  the  playwright,  as  stated  by 
Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko,  were : 

"  To  free  the  stage  from  routine  and  literary  stereo- 
types. 

"  To  give  back  to  the  stage  a  living  psychology  and 
simple  speech. 

"  To  examine  life  not  only  through  rising  heights 
and  falling  abysses,  but  through  the  every-day  life  sur- 
rounding us. 

"  To  seek  '  theatricality '  of  dramatic  productions 
not  in  exceptional  staging,  which  has  given  over  the 
theatre  for  many  years  to  a  special  kind  of  masters  and 
has  turned  away  from  it  the  contemporary  literary 
talents,  but  in  the  hidden  inner  psychologic  life. 

"  The  art  of  Tchehoff  is  the  art  of  artistic  freedom 
and  artistic  truth." 

The  counter-revolution  against  the  revolt  of  Stanis- 
lavsky has  had  a  number  of  varying  aims,  but  it  has 
taken  two  main  forms.  One  of  these  lines  of  cleavage 

249 


The  Russian  Theatre 


has  been  within  the  theory  of  realistic  or  naturalistic 
representation  as  a  medium  of  artistic  expression,  a  dis- 
agreement with  Stanislavsky's  method  of  instruction 
of  the  actor.  The  other  has  been  directed  against  the 
entire  doctrine  of  illusory  representation,  an  attempt 
to  return  to  the  theatre  theatrical  as  it  flourished  in  the 
time  of  Moliere  and  the  Italian  comincdia  dell'  arte. 

Stanislavsky's  method  of  instruction  in  acting  is 
patent  in  his  address  to  the  company  on  taking  up  the 
study  of  "  The  Blue  Bird  ",  a  portion  of  which  I  have 
quoted  in  Chapter  III.  .Reference  to  that  preliminary 
lesson  will  reveal  a  belief  in  the  actor's  enrichment  of 
his  interpretative  powers  by  observing  the  experiences 
of  others,  both  men  and  beasts,  and  by  attempting  to 
put  himself  in  their  places.  This,  of  course,  is  a  de- 
cided step  in  advance  of  the  old  imitation  of  the  ex- 
ternal aspects  of  emotional  experience,  but  it  has  not 
been  wholly  satisfactory  to  all  of  the  theorists  and  the 
regisseurs  of  the  Russian  stage.  No  one  has  stated 
the  case  of  the  opposition  more  emphatically  and  at 
the  same  time  with  deeper  appreciation  of  the  achieve- 
ment of  Stanislavsky  and  the  Art  Theatre,  than  Fyodor 
Kommissarzhevsky  in  his  book,  "  The  Art  of  the  Actor 
and  the  Theory  of  Stanislavsky." 

"  Neither  the  methods  of  external  naturalistic  act- 
ing," writes  Kommissarzhevsky,  "  nor  those  of  psy- 
chological naturalistic  acting  create  stage  values.  The 
first  theory,  external  naturalism,  leads  the  actor  toward 
more  or  less  artful  imitation  of  the  external  expression 
of  human  emotions  and  passions,  toward  imitation  of 

250 


Russian  Theories  of  the  Theatre 


the  results  of  soul  experience,  felt  by  other  men  but  not 
by  the  actor.  The  creative  actor,  however,  uses  these 
experiences  as  raw  material  for  his  fantasy;  his  crea- 
tions give  him  more  delight  than  the  reproduction  of 
observations  or  experiences. 

"  The  theory  of  the  so-called  psychological  natural- 
istic acting  turns  genuine  living  experience  into  rea- 
soned simulation ;  it  teaches  how  intelligently  to  express 
psychological  moods  discovered  through  reasoned  anal- 
ysis; it  teaches  how  to  bind  together  cleverly  the  log- 
ical stream  of  experiences;  and  instead  of  the  actor's 
characterization  arising  from  his  penetration  of  the 
writer's  text,  the  worldly  colorless  anti-artistic  expe- 
riences of  the  actor  himself,  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
obtrude,  mutilating  the  author. 

"  This  psychological  naturalistic  theory  is  based  on 
a  half  understanding  of  naturalistic  scientific  psychol- 
ogy; it  denies  the  subconscious  activity  of  our  psychic 
nature,  and  denies  the  possibility  of  conscious  as  well 
as  subconscious  creation;  it  does  not  place  the  art  of 
the  actor  on  the  ground  of  psychological  realism. 

"  While  stage  exercises  which  favor  the  development 
of  fantasy  and  the  imagination  of  the  actor  enrich  his 
consciousness,  those  exercises  which  consist  in  recol- 
lecting the  worldly  experiences  of  the  actor  limit  the 
activity  of  his  consciousness. 

"  Neither  the  first  nor  the  second  theory,  if  their 
rules  of  acting  are  put  into  practice,  can  kill  the  capabil- 
ity for  creation  in  the  actor  who  has  been  a  creator  be- 
fore and  who  is  able  to  think.  Such  an  actor  may 

251 


The  Russian  Theatre 


draw  from  both  theories  useful  data  for  his  creation, 
if  no  violence  is  done  to  him  by  his  teacher.  But  if 
these  rules  of  acting  are  forced  upon  an  unthinking 
actor,  then  the  result  is  a  distorted  actor. 

"If  Stanislavsky's  principles  are  not  used  with  too 
much  confidence,  but  are  carefully  examined;  if  the 
genuinely  psychological  is  separated  from  the  con- 
;trived  —  that  which  is  really  felt  from  that  which  is 
acquired  by  reasoning  —  then  the  system  is  no  doubt  of 
great  value  to  the  actor,  because  no  matter  what  blun- 
ders Stanislavsky  made  in  his  theory,  with  that  theory 
he  laid  the  foundation  for  the  construction  of  the  future 
theory  of  psychologically  sincere  dramatic  art  and 
erected  a  few  guide  posts  on  the  psychological  road 
which  the  actor  must  follow  if  he  does  not  wish  to  be 
a  grinning  figurant. 

"  The  system  of  Stanislavsky  first  of  all  calls  the 
attention  of  the  actor  to  his  own  psychological  nature. 
He  was  the  first  to  found  a  theory  of  acting  based  on 
psychological  facts;  he  was  the  first  to  point  to  the 
methods  by  which  the  actor  is  to  attain  sincere  living 
experiences.  These  methods  are  not  true;  they  are 
based  on  erroneous  psychological  conclusions,  and  lead, 
as  I  have  said,  toward  one's  imitation  of  life  and  thence 
to  imitation  on  the  stage. 

"  This  method  of  creating  the  inner  psychological 
ensemble,  based  upon  inner  communion,  was  the  great- 
est discovery  of  Stanislavsky;  and  it  is  on  the  stage  of 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  that  it  was  first  put  in  prac- 
tice, although  when  Stanislavsky  theorizes  he  falls  into 

252 


Russian  Theories  of  the  Theatre 


error.  Still,  at  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  these  inner 
ensembles  were  created,  because  its  actors  were  knit  to- 
gether on  the  stage  by  the  creative  genius  of  Stanislav- 
sky, because  his  sharp  instinctive  understanding  of 
his  actor's  soul  whispered  to  him  the  means  of  binding 
the  actors  internally,  and  of  making  them  feel  one  an- 
other, and  not  only  hear  one  another.  This  was  pos- 
sible on  the  stage  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  thanks 
solely  to  the  talent  of  Stanislavsky  and  Nyemirovitch- 
Dantchenko.  Such  unification  was  possible  because 
the  actors  were  not  picked  up  from  all  comers  in  Russia. 
Instead,  they  were  all  brought  up  and  trained  for  that 
stage;  they  knew  that  they  had  to  sacrifice  their  per- 
sonal ambitions  for  the  ensemble.  Esthetics,  culture, 
humanity,  guided  the  leaders,  who  were  tired  of  stere- 
otyped art  and  favored  the  creative  powers  of  the  act- 
ors. At  the  same  time,  when  applying  their  '  system  ', 
the  leaders  crushed  these  powers. 

"  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  reason  was 
struggling  with  inspiration  on  the  stage  of  the  Art 
Theatre." 

No  one  on  the  Russian  stage  is  more  conscious  of  his 
own  limitations  than  Kommissarzhevsky.  He  knows 
that  he  is  not  blessed  with  the  supreme  vision  and  im- 
aginative power  of  Stanislavsky,  before  which  he  is 
humble.  He  knows  that  he  lacks  the  magnetic  power 
over  the  souls  and  the  imaginations  of  others  which 
distinguishes  the  first  artist  of  the  Art  Theatre.  And 
yet,  intellectually,  he  has  been  able  to  point  out  the  flaw 
in  the  method  of  Stanislavsky  which  must  be  apparent 

253 


The  Russian  Theatre 


whenever  a  lesser  genius  than  Stanislavsky  tries  to  ap- 
ply it. 

"  My  method,  though  imperfect,"  he  says,  "  I  con- 
sider psychologically  natural,  and  as  a  rcgisscur  I  look 
for  the  roots  of  the  actor's  creative  power  in  his  soul, 
and  I  dream  of  seeing  him  an  independent  cultural 
creator,  not  an  imitator  or  a  psychological  experi- 
menter." Only  time  and  the  appearance  of  an  artist  of 
the  theatre  great  enough  to  develop  and  apply  the 
principles  he  has  barely  indicated  will  tell  whether  he 
has  conceived  a  greater  truth  or  whether  he  is  urging 
the  unattainable  counsel  of  human  perfection  and 
whether,  after  all,  the  theory  of  Stanislavsky  represents 
the  limit  to  which  realism  in  art  can  be  carried. 

The  revolt  against  the  entire  position  of  realism 
and  naturalism  in  the  theatre  has  been  more  determined 
and  more  significant.  Meyerhold  led  it,  with  the  aims 
and  the  results  set  forth  in  Chapter  XIII.  By  the  im- 
aginative power  of  those  aims  and  by  the  vigor  with 
which  he  has  prosecuted  them,  he  has  restored  the  thea- 
tre theatrical  in  Petrograd  to  a  more  honored  and  com- 
manding position  than  it  holds  in  any  other  world  cap- 
ital. By  his  achievements,  he  has  encouraged  others  in 
Russia  to  make  bold  and  interesting  experiments.  His 
preeminence  in  the  Russian  theatre  alongside  Stanis- 
lavsky is  admitted  by  Stanislavsky  himself,  for  the 
broad-minded  leader  of  the  Art  Theatre  is  an  exception 
to  the  rule  of  partisanship  in  esthetics.  Meyerhold's 
gifts  and  his  training  as  theorist,  as  playwright,  as 
actor,  as  director  and  as  critic,  stamp  him  one  of  the 

254 


Russian  Theories  of  the  Theatre 


very  few  living  "  artists  of  the  theatre  "  as  distin- 
guished by  Gordon  Craig  from  the  "  artists  in  the 
theatre." 

I  doubt  whether  Tairoff  and  the  Kamerny  Theatre 
would  have  become  a  creative,  self-conscious  group 
without  the  stimulus  and  the  example  of  Meyerhold. 
Tairoff  first  took  an  active  interest  in  the  theatre  in 
1912,  and  by  that  time  Meyerhold  had  perfected  and 
applied  his  theory  of  the  theatre  theatrical.  The  Ka- 
merny was  founded  as  a  direct  protest  against  both 
Stanislavsky  and  Meyerhold.  The  theatre  of  realism,  in 
the  opinion  of  Tairoff,  neglected  the  symbolic  gesture 
and  rhythm  of  the  complete  theatre,  while  the  theatre 
theatrical  by  its  inherent  and  necessary  neglect  of  the 
emotional  intimacy  of  the  Art  Theatre  shut  itself  off 
from  an  indispensable  function  of  the  perfect  stage. 
From  the  foundation  of  the  Kamerny,  therefore,  Tair- 
off has  sought  by  experiment  and  with  open  mind  to 
discover  a  new  form  of  theatrical  art,  a  new  theory  of 
the  theatre,  which  will  combine  the  essential  aspects 
of  both  extremes.  Each  play  he  has  produced  has  been 
interpreted  in  the  light  of  its  own  peculiar  qualities  in 
the  hope  that  a  new  theory  of  the  art  of  the  theatre 
may  be  evolved.  Instead  of  letting  a  preconceived 
theory  dominate  the  production,  he  has  tried  to  fulfill 
as  richly  as  possible,  with  all  the  means  which  the  mod- 
ern theatre  offers,  the  keynote  or  mood  of  each  suc- 
cessive addition  to  the  repertory. 

That  motive  was  apparent  in  the  Kamerny's  first 
production,  the  revival  of  the  Hindu  drama,  "  Sakun- 

255 


The  Russian  Theatre 


tala  ",  of  which  Sergei  Ignatoff  wrote  in  the  January, 
1905,  issue  of  Meyerhold's  occasional  pamphlet,  The 
Journal  of  Doctor  Dapertutto: 

"  There  was  an  evident  aim  to  lead  the  production 
to  one  general  plan,  namely  to  the  old  Hindu  manu- 
script miniature.  The  primitiveness  of  the  decorative 
means  bordering  on  modern  conventionalization  was 
brought  out  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  play. 
Little  trees  invariably  flat,  the  same  flat  horses,  barely 
held  together  by  the  driver  of  Dushianti,  a  bower  con- 
sisting only  of  two  low  benches  —  all  these  called  in- 
evitably to  memory  the  composition  and  planning  of 
miniatures  which  was  strengthened  by  the  pauses  and 
gestures  of  the  actors,  characteristic  of  these  minia- 
tures." 

That  motive  is  equally  evident  in  the  recent  cubist 
production  of  "  Salome  ",  where  an  intricate  and  eso- 
teric symbolism  of  form  is  combined  with  a  personal 
and  psychological  intimacy,  to  the  end  that  the  trag- 
edy's throbbing  passion  is  multiplied  ten-fold.  By  a 
rigorously  controlled  sophistication,  the  Kamerny  is 
striving  for  a  richer  simplicity  and  for  a  more  decisive, 
more  clarified  dramatic  effect  in  the  theatre.  As  long 
as  it  is  limited  to  plays  written  under  the  stimulus  of 
other  theories  of  the  theatre  or  under  no  theory  in 
particular,  the  Kamerny  can  not  hope  fully  to  attain 
its  goal.  As  the  Art  Theatre  awaited  its  Tchehoff  and 
the  Abbey  Theatre  of  Dublin  its  Synge  to  become  thor- 
oughly conscious  of  motives  and  methods,  so  must  the 
Kamerny  wait  for  a  playwright  whose  creative  power 

256 


Russian  Theories  of  the  Theatre 


will  serve  as  challenge  and  stimulus  to  its  still  vague 
ideals. 

Outside  the  channel  of  controversy  and  discussion  in 
Russia  to-day  stand  the  Small  State  Theatre  of  Mos- 
cow and  the  Ballet.  Trained  in  the  old  school  of  un- 
militant  realism,  Youzhin  guards  the  classics  with  the 
artist's  instinctive  comprehension  of  their  significance 
and  of  the  means  to  make  them  eloquent.  He  and  his 
stage  are  the  inheritors  of  the  humanized  classicism  of 
Motchaloff  and  Shchepkin,  a  classicism  which,  Alex- 
ander Ivanovitch  admits,  received  a  fresh  stimulus  y 
from  the  thorough  and  painstaking  methods  introduced  i 
on  the  Russian  stage  by  Stanislavsky  and  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre. 

The  controversy  which  has  centered  around  the  Bal- 
let in  western  Europe  and  in  America  during  the  last 
decade  has  had  only  feeble  echoes  in  Moscow  and  Pet- 
rograd.  Revolt  in  the  Ballet  is  more  costly  and  more 
forbidding  than  in  the  theatre,  and  the  imperial  con- 
servatism has  had  its  way,  driving  beyond  the  frontier 
Sergei  Diagileff  and  his  fellow  rebels  of  the  dance. 
Rumors  of  their  exploits  in  exile,  however,  have 
drifted  back  home;  and  neither  Moscow  nor  Petrograd 
forgets  the  shining  inspiration  of  Isadora  Duncan  dur- 
ing her  brief  sojourn  in  Russia  years  ago.  The  soil, 
therefore,  is  prepared  for  the  introduction  in  a  free  and 
orderly  Russia  of  the  intensely  dramatic,  atmospheric 
and  symbolic  work  of  Diagileff,  Bakst  and  Stravinsky. 

Standing  almost  alone  in  the  Russian  theatre,  in- 
heritor of  none  and  enemy  to  few,  is  Nikolai  Nikolaie- 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


vitch  Yevreynoff  and  his  arch-revolutionary  theory  of 
monodrama.  That  theory,  it  must  be  apparent  from  a 
study  of  its  proponent's  exegesis  quoted  in  the  preced- 
ing chapter,  is  not  a  theory  for  the  interpretation  of 
existing  drama  but  rather  a  new  way  of  thinking  the 
theatre.  Yevreynoff  has  his  likes  and  dislikes  in  the 
field  of  the  contemporary  theatre;  the  Moscow  Art 
Theatre,  he  contends,  is  the  negation  of  the  theatre,  "  a 
commercial  house  of  artistic  industry  ",  and  the  Stu- 
dios impress  him  as  a  kind  of  "  Boys  Wanted  "  sign 
hung  out  at  the  door.  His  tastes,  however,  are  ex- 
tremely catholic  and  tolerant  of  other  ways  of  con- 
ceiving the  theatre  than  his  own. 

The  vivid  language  by  which  Yevreynoff  expresses 
his  revolt  is  typical  of  the  revolutionist  in  any  field. 
"  Talent  is  a  blood  horse  at  the  races,"  writes  Kamyen- 
sky,  Yevreynoff's  biographer.  "  Genius  is  a  horse  of 
the  steppes.  Yevreynoff  is  a  blood  race  horse  of  the 
steppes,  unexpectedly  tangoing  with  cows." 

And  so  it  is  not  surprising  to  find  Yevreynoff  himself 
writing :  "  My  inmost  dream  is  to  cover  life  in  holiday 
clothes,  to  become  the  tailor  of  her  majesty,  Life. 
This  is  a  more  enviable  career  than  any  I  know." 

Or  again,  in  "  The  Theatre  for  One's  Self  " :  "  Burn, 
theatre,  burn  to  ashes.  I  kiss  your  very  ashes,  because 
from  them,  phoenix-like,  you  are  reborn  every  time 
more  and  more  beautiful.  I  bless  the  kindler  of  those 
fires  and  all  his  kind  who  assist  in  the  transformation  of 
the  very  well  of  transformations. 

"  I  have  no  fears  for  the  well.     At  the  bottom  of  it 

258 


Russian  Theories  of  the  Theatre 


is  an  exhaustless  and  undrying  source.  Its  life  fluid 
comes  from  the  blood  of  our  veins.  And  this  life  fluid 
contends  with  fire.  It  delights  in  showing  its  power 
from  time  to  time.  From  time  to  time  it  is  pleased  to 
weld  itself  together  with  the  very  fire  of  thought  in 
order  that  together  they  may  soar  from  a  boiling  foun- 
tain in  a  rainbow  comprising  all  the  imaginary  colors, 
in  the  hot  spray  of  which  is  the  cure  for  all  dreamers 
who  have  become  cold." 

Still  further,  he  writes :  "  When  I  utter  the  word 
theatre,  the  first  idea  that  comes  to  my  mind  is  a  child 
or  a  savage  and  all  that  is  peculiarly  creative  in  their 
transforming  will :  they  are  not  grasping  this  world, 
which  is  not  their  world  and  is  unintelligible  to  them, 
but  they  are  replacing  it  with  a  freely  invented  world, 
freely  accepted  by  them,  depending  not  so  much  on 
destiny  as  on  invention,  —  the  attraction  toward  a  mask 
as  to  a  covering  of  their  real  '  I's.' 

"  When  I  say  theatre,  I  think  of  transformation  as 
the  basis  of  life. 

"  When  I  say  theatre,  I  believe  that  the  divinity  it- 
self was  of  yore  if  not  invented,  worshipped  at  first  in 
the  capacity  of  the  transformer. 

"  When  I  say  theatre,  I  see  men  following  the  ex- 
ample of  the  divinity  in  spite  of  themselves,  even  in  the 
case  when  man  and  everything  human  would  seem 
powerless  to  do  so. 

"  When  I  say  theatre,  I  hear  a  child  talking  to  inan- 
imate objects;  the  ringing  rustling  of  the  masquerade 
ornaments  of  the  savage;  the  stamping  of  the  feet  of 

259 


The  Russian  Theatre 


his  painted  female  companion  playing  the  gazelle  pur- 
sued by  the  hunter. 

"  When  I  say  theatre,  I  see  an  endlessly  complicated 
ceremonial  of  national  life,  worked  out  by  centuries." 

To  Yevreynoff,  the  will  to  the  theatre  is  as  natural 
and  omnipresent  a  human  instinct  as  the  will  to  live  and 
the  will  to  power.  "  The  fact  that  the  child  plays  with- 
out being  forced  to,"  he  says,  "  plays  always,  plays  of 
his  own  volition,  and  that  no  one  has  to  teach  the  child 
to  play,  to  create  his  own  theatre,  proves  that  nature  put 
in  men  some  will  to  the  theatre."  In  this  light,  Yev- 
reynoff believes  that  much  of  the  impulse  back  of  revo- 
lution may  be  explained  by  the  desire  to  get  out  of  the 
norms  of  life  —  the  will  to  play.  Crime,  too,  he  sees 
partially  explained  in  the  same  way,  and  he  finds 
therein  a  cue  to  Dostoievsky's  "  Crime  and  Punish- 
ment." "  The  daring  Raskolnikoff,"  he  writes,  "  rises 
a  hundred  heads  above  Napoleon.  Napoleon  needed 
the  audience  of  the  world ;  Raskolnikoff  was  sufficient 
unto  himself." 

The  view  that  every  human  being  is  an  actor  in  a 
great  part  of  his  daily  life  is  not  new.  Richard  Mans- 
field developed  it  interestingly  in  a  magazine  article  not 
long  before  his  death,  and  it  crops  out  again  and  again 
in  the  psychology  of  William  James.  Yevreynoff, 
with  typically  Russian  relentlessness  and  honesty,  has 
simply  followed  this  theory  to  its  final  analysis,  and  he 
seeks  to  reconstitute  the  theatre  on  the  basis  of  a  frank- 
recognition  of  its  universal  significance.  Independ- 
ently of  him,  but  with  a  similar  impulse  and  motive, 

260 


Russian  Theories  of  the  Theatre 


Theodore  Dreiser  has  sought  a  like  goal  in  America 
in  his  volume,  "  Plays  of  the  Natural  and  the  Supernat- 
ural." Whether  or  not  the  democratic  audience  which 
is  a  necessary  element  of  the  theatre  in  any  country  is 
yet  able  to  adjust  itself  readily  to  this  revolutionary 
manner  of  conceiving  the  theatre,  the  theory  of  mono- 
drama  is  the  most  intriguing  accretion  to  the  realm  of 
esthetics  in  many  years,  the  most  pregnant  gift  of 
Russian  genius  to  the  theatre  of  our  time. 

The  most  fundamental,  the  most  universal  theory  of 
the  theatre  in  Russia,  however,  is  that  the  theatre  is  an 
art  and  that  every  one  connected  with  it  must  be  an 
artist.  By  the  unquestioning  acceptance  of  that  theory 
on  the  part  of  all  its  directors,  its  actors,  its  playwrights 
and  its  painters,  the  Russian  theatre  has  attained  the 
leadership  of  the  world.  Despite  wide  divergence  of 
opinion  as  to  the  most  truthful  and  the  most  expressive 
media,  there  is  general  acceptance  of  the  fact  that  art 
is  that  to  which  artists  turn  their  hands  and  that  they 
are  artists  who  see  life  more  eloquently  than  their  fel- 
lows. Without  artists,  no  theory  of  the  theatre  is 
worth  the  paper  on  which  it  is  written ;  with  artists,  the 
theory  is  merely  the  aftermath  analysis  of  the  manner 
in  which  the  artists  have  expressed  their  vision. 


261 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  PATH  OF  STORM 

As  I  examine  the  records  of  the  four  years  that  have 
elapsed  since  I  gathered  the  data  for  the  preceding  chap- 
ters in  person,  in  Moscow  and  Petrograd,  I  am  struck 
by  the  evidence  of  the  completion  of  an  era  in  the  Rus- 
sian Theatre  and  the  beginning  of  a  new  one.  Con- 
vinced of  that  fact,  I  am  persuaded  to  bring  this  chron- 
icle down  to  date,  both  in  a  narrative  and  an  interpretive 
sense. 

The  era  that  has  passed  and  passed  forever  has  a  dual 
aspect.  It  can  be  viewed  broadly  or  narrowly,  but  the 
terminus  is  the  same  in  either  case.  From  the  im- 
mediate aspect,  an  end  has  come  to  the  governmental 
control  under  the  Soviet.  Intimations  of  this  inter- 
ference were  obvious,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  early  days 
of  the  Bolshevik  regime,  but  official  supervision  grew  to 
all-inclusive  proportions  before  it  suddenly  collapsed 
and  disappeared.  Coincidental  in  time  and  closely  re- 
lated in  cause,  came  the  conclusion  to  the  century-old 
isolation  of  the  Russian  Theatre.  Henceforth  the 
theatres  of  Moscow  and  Petrograd  belong  to  the  world, 
just  as,  I  am  sure,  the  theatres  of  the  world  will  belong 
to  the  theatres  of  the  two  Muscovite  capitals,  old  and 
new. 

262 


The  Path  of  Storm 


Before  examining  the  reasons  for  these  epoch-making 
changes,  their  significance  and  implications  for  the 
theatres  inside  Russia  and  out,  a  subject  which  is  re- 
served for  the  succeeding  chapter,  let  us  survey  the  path 
of  storm  of  the  last  four  years,  observe  what  has  hap- 
pened to  the  established  playhouses  of  Moscow  and 
Petrograd  and  to  the  personalities  connected  with  them, 
and  appraise  the  foremost  recruits  to  the  institutional 
and  personal  roster. 

For  a  year  after  my  return,  not  the  slightest  hint 
came  out  of  Russia  concerning  the  theatre.  The  es- 
thetic blockade  was  even  tighter  than  in  the  early  days 
of  the  Revolution  while  I  was  searching  for  evidence 
that  my  proposed  quest  would  have  tangible  reward. 
A  period  of  rumor  ensued  —  wild,  extravagant  and 
sometimes  even  malicious  rumor,  concerning  artists 
like  Shaliapin  and  Stanislavsky,  involving  insanity, 
imprisonment  and  death  by  disease,  starvation,  sui- 
cide, murder  and  execution.  Denial  only  fanned  the 
flames  of  credulity.  With  the  passing  of  peace-mad- 
ness, came  more  dependable,  but  still  fragmentary,  in- 
formation. Only  when  the  mails  were  restored  in  the 
fall  of  1921,  on  the  entrance  of  the  American  Relief 
Administration  into  Russia,  was  it  possible  to  obtain 
connected  accounts  of  what  had  occurred  behind  the 
international  veil.  And  finally  these  reports,  incom- 
plete through  faulty  conception  of  what  the  outside 
world  wished  to  know,  have  been  augmented  and  filled 
in  by  cross-questioning  the  steadily-increasing  stream 
of  Russian  visitors  to  our  shores. 

263 


The  Russian  Theatre 


It  is  only  fair  to  state  that  my  most  dependable  in- 
formant by  correspondence  has  been  Nikolai  Yarovoff, 
artist  and  critic,  who  served  as  my  interpreter  in  Mos- 
cow on  more  than  one  occasion,  and  that  for  my  most 
valuable  word-of-mouth  reports  I  am  indebted  to 
Alexei  Arhangelsky,  composer  of  Balieff's  Letutchaya 
Muish,  who  remained  in  Moscow  in  charge  of  that 
cellar  of  antic  delight  until  he  rejoined  Balieff's  staff 
in  New  York  in  July,  1922. 

Without  reference  to  individual  stages  and  disre- 
garding exceptional  circumstances,  the  general  trend  of 
these  four  years,  as  I  have  said,  has  carried  the  Russian 
Theatre  from  desultory  official  heckling  and  interfer- 
ence through  increasing  and  ultimately  complete  state 
control  and  operation,  and  finally  in  full  circle  back  to 
the  old  time  independence.  The  earlier  part  of  this 
cycle,  of  course,  grew  out  of  the  Soviet  determination 
to  bend  every  social  agency,  including  the  theatre,  to  the 
service  of  spreading  Communist  propaganda.  The  lat- 
ter arc  of  the  cycle  is  just  as  surely  the  result  of  the 
complete  failure  of  the  attempt  to  make  the  theatre  sub- 
servient to  anything  but  esthetic  laws. 

Keeping  this  general  pattern  in  mind  and  withhold- 
ing specific  references  and  deductions  as  to  its  conse- 
quences until  the  next  chapter,  I  shall  proceed  to  relate 
the  recent  fortunes  of  playhouses  involved  in  my  orig- 
inal narrative,  as  well  as  of  those  which  have  sprung 
up  since  my  sojourn  in  Russia. 

With  an  irony  often  characteristic  of  some  of  the 
most  laudable  attempts  at  novelty,  the  Kamerny  and  the 

264 


The  Path  of  Storm 


other  theatres  of  artistic  revolt  have  to  yield  first  posi- 
tion to  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  and  its  subsidiary 
Studios  for  a  chronicle  of  activities  absorbing  in  its 
human  interest  and  dramatic  significance.  In  a  time 
of  upheaval,  it  might  be  supposed  that  the  new  would 
outdistance  the  old  in  these  respects,  but  when  the  old 
is  as  firmly  rooted  in  public  affection  as  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre  is,  when  it  is  as  definitely  conscious  of  its 
own  purposes  and  methods  and  as  unmistakably  re- 
sponsible for  most  of  the  new  theatre  inside  Russia,  as 
well  as  much  outside  its  borders,  then  the  old  need 
fear  no  inroads  on  its  position  and  security. 

The  recent  record  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  is  a 
curious  patchwork  of  romance,  adventure  and  make- 
shift, of  dogged  courage  in  holding  to  ideals,  of 
shrewd  trimming  on  occasion  to  relentless  winds,  of 
almost  superhuman  vitality  in  planting  and  cultivating 
new  enterprises.  A  small  group  of  the  company  was 
caught  on  tour  in  Harkoff  at  the  close  of  the  spring 
season  in  1919  by  the  north-sweeping  armies  of  Deni- 
kin,  and  it  faced  the  problem  of  returning  through  the 
lines  to  Moscow  or  remaining  in  anti-Soviet  territory. 
Councils  were  divided.  Podgorny  felt  that  he  had 
given  his  word  to  return,  and  after  days  of  exposure 
between  the  lines,  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  capital. 
The  remainder,  including  Mmes.  Knipper  and  Ger- 
manova,  and  Katchaloff,  Massalitinoff,  Bersenieff, 
Alexandroff  and  Pavloff,  seized  what  they  felt  was  the 
advantage  of  accidental  exile  and  worked  their  way 
southward  with  Denikin  in  retreat. 

265 


The  Russian  Theatre 


On  the  collapse  of  the  White  armies  and  the  exten- 
sion of  Red  territory  to  the  Black  Sea,  this  exile  band 
took  ship  to  Constantinople,  found  refuge  for  a  season 
of  Tchehoff  s  and  other  plays  of  the  established  reper- 
tory in  Sofia,  Bulgaria,  and  ultimately  reached  Berlin. 
There  and  in  Prague,  Vienna  and  Scandinavia  they 
eked  out  a  living  from  month  to  month  and  won  ap- 
proval from  enthusiastic  audiences  who  had  never  seen 
the  entire  company  at  work.  Fortunately  for  both 
groups,  their  forces  were  so  divided  that  most  of  their 
favorite  plays  could  be  presented  adequately.  With 
the  prospect  of  an  American  tour  looming  ahead,  how- 
ever, the  exiles  rejoined  their  comrades  in  Moscow  late 
in  the  spring  of  1922  to  reunite  and  consolidate  scat- 
tered elements,  and  to  prepare  once  more  a  single  im- 
pregnable front  by  public  presentation  in  full  force, 
for  the  first  time  in  three  years,  of  Tchehoff 's  "  The 
Three  Sisters "  and  "  The  Cherry  Orchard "  and 
Gorky's  "  The  Lower  Depths." 

The  larger  group,  which  remained  in  Moscow 
in  1919,  faced  ever-increasing  difficulties.  Official 
opposition  to  the  repertory  on  account  of  its  supposedly 
bourgeois  tendencies  meant  that  a  constant  threat  to 
close  the  theatre  hung  over  its  head.  The  twentieth 
anniversary  had  passed  the  year  before  without  the 
promised  revival  of  Tchehoff's  "  The  Sea  Gull." 
Blok's  "  The  Rose  and  the  Cross  "  was  still  held  up  in 
rehearsal. 

Three  new  productions,  however,  were  made  during 
266 


The  Path  of  Storm 


these  difficult  years,  together  with  an  important  revival 
and  the  continuation  of  several  of  the  faithful  Lares 
and  Penates  of  the  repertory,  .such  as  Gorky's  "  The 
Lower  Depths,"  Turgenieff's  "A  Month  in  the  Coun- 
try," Ostrovsky's  "  Enough  Stupidity  in  Every  Wise 
Man  "  and  Hamsun's  "  In  the  Claws  of  Life."  The 
revival  was  that  of  Gogol's  "  Revizor  "  or  "  The  Inspec- 
tor General,"  which  with  the  bluff  and  burly  Uraloff 
in  the  role  of  the  credulous  and  viable  mayor,  first  en- 
tered the  Art  Theatre's  repertory  in  the  season  of 
1908-1909.  The  staunch  and  reliable  Moskvin  now 
wore  Uraloff's  shoes,  with  Korenieva  as  the  mayor's 
daughter  and  the  brilliant  Tchehoff,  nephew  of  the 
playwright,  as  the  bumptious  pretender,  Hlestyakoff. 
In  the  keeping  of  such  as  these,  the  revival  of  "Re- 
visor"  sustained  the  Art  Theatre's  standards  un- 
dimmed. 

The  three  new  productions  fared  not  so  well  — 
or  rather,  one  of  them  fared  ill,  while  the  Art  Theatre 
itself  was  the  sufferer  by  the  success  of  the  other  two. 
The  honorable  failure  was  Byron's  "  Cain,"  which  was 
taken  to  the  storehouse  after  about  ten  performances. 
The  veteran,  Leonidoff,  had  the  title  part,  while  Eve 
was  played  by  Korenieva,  Abel  by  Gaidaroff  and  Adam 
by  Znamensky,  who  later  was  the  victim  of  a  tragic 
accidental  death.  The  dubious  successes  were  two 
light  operas,  Le  Cocq's  "  La  Fille  de  Mme.  Angot " 
and  Millocker's  "  The  Singing  Birds,"  the  first  retro- 
gression of  the  Art  Theatre's  stage  to  frivolous  ends. 

267 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Public  taste  seemed  to  demand  such  as  these  in  order 
to  permit  an  occasional  performance  of  Gorky  or  Go- 
gol, of  Ostrovsky  or  Turgenieff. 

Public  taste,  on  the  other  hand,  has  rallied  just  as 
decisively  to  the  courageous  efforts  of  the  unyielding 
spirits  in  the  company  to  keep  the  fire  of  old  ideals  and 
of  new  enterprise  burning  in  the  Studio  Theatres. 
Not  only  have  the  First  and  the  Second  Studios  wea- 
thered the  difficult  days ;  but  a  Third,  a  Fourth  and  an 
Operatic  Studio  have  been  added.  I  know  of  no  surer 
proof  —  if  proof  be  needed —  that  the  theatre  in  Rus- 
sia will  survive  whatever  the  future  has  in  store,  no 
more  convincing  indication  that  the  influence  of  the 
Moscow  Art  Theatre  will  be  felt  long  after  those  who 
founded  it  have  passed  away. 

Taking  the  Studio  Theatres  in  order,  though  not  in 
the  rank  of  their  intrinsic  values  as  determined  by  their 
recent  activities,  the  First  Studio  has  removed  from  its 
match-box  auditorium  and  stage  in  Skobelieff  Square 
to  ample  quarters  in  a  remodeled  restaurant  building 
in  the  Triumphalnaya  Ploshchad,  far  out  on  the  Tver- 
skaya.  The  original  stage  is  still  used  for  rehearsal. 
To  its  old  repertory,  reviewed  in  Chapter  VI,  it  has 
recently  added  "  Michael,  the  Achangel  "  by  a  Russian 
dramatist,  Mme.  Nadiezhda  Bromley,  and  Strindberg's 
"  Eric  XIV."  Something  of  the  old  eagerness  seems 
to  have  departed  from  the  First  Studio,  due  in  part 
to  the  graduation  of  such  leading  figures  as  Mile.  Bak- 
lanova,  the  young  Tchehoff  and  others  to  the  parent 
stage,  the  assignment  of  still  others  as  preceptors  for 

268 


The  Path  of  Storm 


the  newer  Studios  and  the  departure  of  Kolin  for  devi- 
ous adventures  abroad. 

The  Second  Studio,  too,  has  a  new  home,  having  out- 
grown its  cramped  quarters  across  the  city  near  the 
Telephone  Building.  It  is  now  amply  housed  in  the 
Tverskaya  in  the  rooms  of  the  old  Railway  Club. 
Yevgeny  Kaluzhsky,  son  of  the  great  character  actor 
of  the  parent  stage,  Vassily  Luzhsky,  is  still  associated 
with  the  Second  Studio  and  is  its  chief  mentor  since 
the  suicide  of  Alexei  Stahovitch  in  1919.  Mile.  Tara- 
sova  is  still  its  outstanding  acting  talent.  Only  a  single 
production  has  been  added  to  its  repertory,  "  The  Tale 
of  Ivanushka  the  Stupid,  "  dramatized  by  Tchehoff 
from  an  anonymous  folk  tale  related  remotely  to 
"  Konyok-Gorbunok." 

If  the  First  and  Second  Studios  have  more  or  less 
marked  time,  the  Third  has  made  up  for  them  by  an 
amazing  first  season,  a  season  dominated  by  youth, 
eagerness,  virility,  tirelessness,  the  fire  of  fresh  imagi- 
nation. With  funds  and  authority  provided  by  the 
Government,  the  commodious  home  of  Prince  Gagarin, 
half  way  down  the  Arbat,  was  obtained  in  the  fall  of 
1921  as  a  location  for  the  new  Studio  Theatre,  with  an 
auditorium  seating  250  to  300.  The  ambitious  young 
people  enrolled  in  its  ranks  were  placed  in  charge  of 
Yevgeny  Vakhtangoff,  of  the  First  Studio,  who  used 
to  play  the  role  of  Tackleton  in  "  The  Cricket  on  the 
Hearth."  Three  productions  in  its  first  year  is  a 
record  none  of  the  other  Studios  has  ever  attained  in 
a  single  season :  Maeterlinck's  "  The  Miracle  of  St. 

269 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Anthony  "  and  a  bill  of  three  short  plays  by  Tchehoff 
in  the  fall  of  1921,  and  "  Turandot"  in  late  winter 
with  costumes  and  scenes  designed  by  the  eminent 
artist,  Sergei  Yakuloff.  A  shadow  was  cast  over  this 
most  promising  venture  toward  the  close  of  the  spring 
season,  when  its  guiding  spirit,  Vakhtangoff,  fell  ill 
from  overwork  and  died. 

The  Fourth  Studio,  too,  was  a  product  of  the  access 
of  activity  of  the  autumn  of  1921.  With  its  quarters, 
like  those  of  the  First  Studio,  on  the  Triumphalnaya 
Ploshchad,  it  has  an  auditorium  seating  about  600. 
The  first  year  was  devoted  to  rehearsals ;  and  the  open- 
ing production,  "  Our  Family, "  by  Griboyedoff, 
Shakovskoy  and  Hmelnitsky,  was  made  during  the 
summer  of  1922.  The  present  season  has  begun  with 
"  The  Inhabited  Earth,"  with  scenery  by  Gortinskaya. 
This  Studio  has  recently  invited  Meyerhold  to  stage  a 
series  of  Strindberg's  plays  for  it,  an  ironic  turn  in  the 
wheel  of  fate,  for  it  was  by  way  of  an  early  Studio  of 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  in  1905,  that  this  rebel  from 
the  tenets  of  Stanislavsky  made  his  way  by  degrees  out 
of  the  fold. 

Although  all  of  the  Studio  Theatres  have  been  the 
particular  concern  and  pride  of  Stanislavsky,  it  is  the 
Opera  Studio,  founded  along  with  the  Third  and 
Fourth  in  the  fall  of  1921,  which  commands  his  imme- 
diate attention  and  attachment.  As  evidence  of  this 
interest,  the  Opera  Studio  is  housed  in  his  home,  or, 
to  put  it  more  literally,  the  Government  has  allocated 
to  the  good  grey  god- father  of  the  modern  Russian 

270 


The  Path  of  Storm 


theatre  several  rooms  in  the  building  which  has  been 
assigned  to  the  Studio,  on  condition  that  his  library  be 
made  available  to  the  students.  This  Opera  Studio, 
apparently,  fulfils  one  of  the  functions  performed  by 
the  Second  Studio  while  I  was  in  Moscow :  the  elemen- 
tary training  of  the  very  youngest  students.  That  ex- 
plains in  part  the  transfer  of  Stanislavsky's  affections. 
The  Second  Studio  by  this  time  is  grown  up.  The 
Opera  Studio  is  Youth  knocking  at  the  gate.  And  the 
co-founder  of  the  Art  Theatre  feels  that  his  creative 
influence  is  most  potent  today  as  stimulus  to  the  imag- 
ination of  the  on-coming  generation.  Thus  far  the 
only  public  performances  of  this  group  have  been  given 
on  special  occasions  on  the  stage  of  the  Art  Theatre 
itself  —  medley  programs  of  unrelated  scenes  from 
"  Werther,  "  "  Yevgeny  Onyegin "  and  particularly 
dramatizations  of  single  songs. 

These  are  the  regularly  established  appendages  of 
the  Moscow  Art  Theatre.  But  there  are  others  on  the 
outskirts,  connected  with  the  Art  Theatre  only  through 
the  personal  relationship  of  Stanislavsky,  Leonidoff 
and  others  of  the  Art  Theatre.  In  this  category,  there 
is  already  an  Armenian  Studio  and  a  Jewish  Studio, 
with  other  racial  groups  to  be  similarly  represented 
when  plans  are  carried  out. 

If  the  Kamerny  Theatre  can  show  no  such  record 
of  struggle,  adventure  and  expansion  as  this,  its 
achievement  at  least  outruns  that  of  every  other  stage 
introduced  in  the  preceding  chapters.  Suspected  like 
the  rest  in  the  beginning  as  haunt  of  bourgeois  and 

271 


The  Russian  Theatre 


dilletante,  it  gradually  won  official  immunity,  confi- 
dence, favor  and  support  through  the  shrewd  policy  of 
its  regisseur,  Alexander  Tairoff.  In  sheer  producing 
activity,  as  well  as  in  the  provocative  quality  of  its 
new  work,  the  Kamerny  surpasses  even  the  Art  The- 
atre, if  the  latter's  Studios  are  not  taken  into  account. 
Five  new  productions  of  the  first  order,  each  of  them 
accounted  a  financial  success  and  a  step  in  advance 
artistically;  removal  to  larger  quarters  and  increase 
of  its  staff  to  upward  of  a  hundred;  and  the  continua- 
tion in  the  repertory  of  all  the  most  marked  achieve- 
ments of  former  seasons  —  this,  in  sum,  is  the  four- 
year  chronicle  of  Moscow's  dramatic  revolutionists. 

Tsar  and  star  of  the  Kamerny  are  still  Tairoff  and 
Alice  Koonen.  In  addition  to  making  all  of  the  new 
productions,  Tairoff  has  found  time  to  complete  and 
publish  in  1921  his  long-awaited  confession  of  dra- 
matic faith,  "  Notes  of  a  Regisseur."  Mme.  Koonen, 
of  course,  has  played  the  leading  role  in  each  of  the 
new  pieces,  and  with  her  "  Phedre,"  particularly,  in 
the  spring  of  1922,  she  seems  to  have  fully  justified 
the  faith  in  her  future  which  her  impassioned  "  Sa- 
lome "  aroused.  Tseretelli  is  still  the  leading  man 
of  the  Kamerny;  but  the  fourth  member  of  the  direc- 
torate, Henri  Forterre,  after  remaining  in  Moscow  un- 
til 1920,  returned  to  his  native  Paris,  joined  Balieff 
there  and  remained  in  the  French  capital  when  the  pro- 
prietor of  "  The  Bat  "  proceeded  on  his  way  to  London 
and  New  York. 

Scribe's  "  Adrienne  Lecouvreur  "  was  the  first  ad- 
272 


The  Path  of  Storm 


dition  to  the  Kamerny's  repertory  as  heretofore  out- 
lined. Boris  Ferdinandoff,  the  young  designer  of 
"  King  Harlequin,"  executed  the  settings  and  cos- 
tumes in  a  spirit  of  cubist  rococo  and  thereby  set  the 
mood  for  a  thoroughly  modern  and  deliberately  and 
consciously  theatrical  interpretation  of  this  gorgeous 
old  relic  of  artificiality. 

"  Princess  Brambilla  "  followed,  a  fantasy  by  Hoff- 
man, with  scenery  and  costumes  by  Yakuloff  and  music 
by  Forterre.  The  Kamerny  next  returned  to  Claudel 
for  "  L'Annonce  Faite  a  Marie "  or  "  The  Tidings 
Brought  to  Mary."  Forterre  wrote  special  music  for 
it  and  the  celebrated  painter,  Viesnin,  designed  aus- 
terely simple  settings  and  costumes.  Another  fling  at 
Shakespeare  ensued  with  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  inter- 
preted in  the  same  violently  modern  manner  as  "  The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  "  back  in  1916.  The  Ka- 
merny had  .learned  to  bring  actors  and  setting  in  closer 
accord  in  the  interval,  and  the  production,  with  music 
by  Alexandroff,  and  designs  from  the  brush  of  Alex- 
andra Exter  of  "  Salome  "  fame,  provided  a  triumph 
for  Mme.  Koonen  as  Juliet. 

Finally,  in  the  spring  of  1922,  came  Racine's  "  Phe* 
dre,"  acknowledged  to  be  the  peak  of  the  Kamerny '.'J 
accomplishment  alongside  the  early  pantomime,  "  The 
Veil  of  Pierrette,"  and  the  cubist  "  Salome."  Dis- 
satisfied with  the  existing  literal  translation  as  hope- 
lessly incompatible  with  modern  tastes,  Tairoff  en- 
trusted the  making  of  a  new  version  in  the  form  of  a 
free  adaptation  to  the  eminent  poet,  Valery  Briussoff. 

273 


The  Russian  Theatre 


The  translator  performed  his  difficult  task  brilliantly, 
preserved  Racine's  ideas  from  mutilation  and  fixed 
them  like  a  cherished  jewel  in  a  fresh  setting.  The 
stage  decorations,  by  Viesnin,  were  monumental  and 
impressive  in  their  classic  harmony,  and  the  costumes 
had  the  genuine  simplicity  of  line  and  color  of  the 
Hellenic  primitives.  The  deep  dark  blue  of  the  sky 
in  the  first  act,  ominous  of  impending  tragedy,  struck 
the  emotional  tonal  key  to  the  whole  production. 

Side  by  side  with  these  new  plays,  old  favorites  were 
repeated :  the  pantomime,  "  The  Veil  of  Pierrette" ; 
Debussy's  "  The  Box  of  Toys  " ;  Wilde's  "  Salome  " ; 
and  "  King  Harlequin."  An  operetta  and  a  new 
pantomime  comprise  the  new  work  on  which  Tairoff  is 
engaged. 

Dismissed  as  a  mere  curiosity  by  Moscow  critics 
even  as  late  as  "  Salome,"  the  Kamerny  has  at  last 
won  critical  and  public  acknowledgment.  Tairoff's 
esthetic  theories,  while  utterly  divorced  from  political 
intent,  are  easily  compatible  with  a  fluid  and  restless 
state  of  the  public  mind.  This  belated  acceptance,  to- 
gether with  the  aid  of  the  Government,  enabled  the 
Kamerny  to  move  from  its  make-shift  club-house  to 
a  larger  theatre  in  the  Arbatskaya  Ploshchad  in 
1918.  In  the  end  it  returned  to  its  spacious  orig- 
inal home  in  the  Tverskoi  Boulevard,  from  which  the 
necessity  to  subsist  on  a  meagre  budget  had  forced  it 
by  the  time  I  was  in  Moscow.  Tairoff  is  still  eager 
to  come  to  America,  but  his  theatre  would  lack  the 
novelty  it  would  have  had  four  years  ago.  Our  own 

274 


The  Path  of  Storm 


theatre  in  the  meanwhile  has  moved  forward  percep- 
tibly along  lines  similar  to  those  of  the  Kamerny,  under 
the  independent  inspiration  of  Robert  Edmond  Jones 
as  designer,  and  Eugene  O'Neill  as  playwright. 

The  remaining  theatres  and  personalities  of  contem- 
porary Moscow  and  Petrograd  can  be  easily  grouped 
in  three  classes :  those  concerned  in  my  earlier  chap- 
ters, which  have  either  marked  time,  deteriorated  or 
disappeared;  new  enterprises;  and  self-imposed  exiles. 

The  struggle  of  the  Ballet  for  mere  existence  has 
been  carried  on  against  pathetically  discouraging  odds. 
Protected  and  supported  as  a  show  place  for  All-Rus- 
sian and  International  Congresses,  but  not  with  suffi- 
cient funds  to  make  possible  new  productions,  the  Great 
State  Theatre  in  Moscow  faced  a  complete  shut-down 
in  the  winter  of  1921-22  after  the  playhouses  had  been 
thrown  once  more  on  their  own  resources.  The  Ballet 
had  always  required  subsidies,  even  under  the  Tsar, 
and  in  the  view  of  A.  V.  Lunatcharsky,  Kommissar  of 
Education  in  charge  of  all  the  theatres,  the  two  bil- 
lion rubles  allotted  monthly  by  the  Soviet  to  its  up- 
keep could  be  better  spent  in  increasing  the  miserly  sal- 
ary of  school  teachers. 

Accordingly,  the  commission  in  charge  of  the  cur- 
tailment of  unimportant  governmental  establishments 
and  personnel  decided  to  lock  and  bar  the  doors  of  the 
home  of  the  Ballet.  At  once,  a  formidable  protest 
arose  —  not  from  the  ignorant  and  disgustingly  ill- 
mannered  profiteers  who  purchase  the  best  seats  today, 
nor  from  the  remains  of  the  intelligentsia  who  devoted 

275 


The  Russian  Theatre 


their  indignation  to  futile  speculative  analysis  of  the 
situation.  The  protest  came  from  the  silent  workmen 
of  Moscow,  who,  with  dirty  hands  and  faces  and  clad 
in  rags,  took  up  the  question  at  their  factory  meetings 
and  demanded  that  the  Soviet  reopen  the  theatre  at 
once.  The  army  barracks  repeated  this  demand.  And 
the  result  was  that  the  commission  revoked  its  de- 
cision and  appointed  a  subcommission  to  investigate 
means  of  curtailing  unnecessary  expenses. 

Zhukoff  and  Mme.  Geltser  are  still  the  premier  dan- 
cers in  Moscow,  although  not  long  ago  Mordkin  sud- 
denly turned  up  from  a  four-year  exile  in  the  Cau- 
casus, assumed  momentary  control,  clashed  with  his 
superiors  and  returned  to  Tiflis.  Mile.  Abramova  is 
the  hope  of  the  younger  generation,  one  of  those  star- 
tling discoveries  from  the  ballet  school  who  periodically 
renew  the  grip  which  this  form  of  art  holds  over  public 
attention.  The  Ballet  at  the  Marinsky  in  Petrograd 
has  dropped  beneath  notice,  just  as  have  all  the  play- 
houses of  the  old  capital,  including  even  the  Alexan- 
drinsky,  since  the  Soviet  removed  the  crown  of  art  and 
letters  as  well  as  of  politics  to  the  Kremlin  City. 

Uninspired,  except  by  emulation  of  the  Moscow  Art 
Theatre  and  by  the  single  important  individual  talent  of 
Prince  Sumbatoff  (Youzhin),  the  Small  State  The- 
atre of  Moscow  has  failed  to  distinguish  itself  notably 
in  the  last  four  years.  It  has  lost  by  death  both  Ossip 
Pravdin  and  Mme.  Sadovskaya,  indispensable  veterans, 
and  by  secession,  the  youthful  talents  of  Maximoff  and 

276 


The  Path  of  Storm 


Mile.  Gzovskaya.  Yermolova,  now  undisputed  grande 
dame  of  the  Russian  stage,  in  the  celebration  of  whose 
fiftieth  anniversary  as  a  player  the  Soviet  joined  in 
1921,  weathered  a  serious  illness  and  acts  once  more, 
though  infrequently. 

Besides  keeping  the  plays  of  Ostrovsky  in  the  reper- 
tory, Youzhin  has  made  an  ambitious  but  conventional 
production  of  Shakespeare's  "  Richard  III,"  in  which 
he  enacts  the  king,  and  an  elaborate  revival  of  Schil- 
ler's "  Mary  Stuart."  The  latter,  disclosed  in  the 
spring  of  1922,  had  all  the  faults  and  few  of  the  vir- 
tues of  this  home  of  the  classic  drama,  for  its  treat- 
ment was  minutely  exact  rather  than  vitally  dramatic. 
Korovin,  still  associated  with  the  State  Theatres  in 
Moscow,  designed  new  scenery.  Recreating  the  life 
of  Tudor  times  with  meticulous  accuracy,  the  settings 
and  costumes  and  ceremonials  must  have  been  inter- 
esting to  historical  students,  although  only  the  episode 
of  the  execution  was  deeply  moving  to  the  ordinary 
spectator. 

Little  can  be  said  for  the  established  theatres  of  the 
second  line  in  Moscow  except  that  they  have  persisted. 
The  Moscow  Dramatic  Theatre  attracted  some  atten- 
tion with  Shaw's  "  Great  Catherine,"  which  would 
seem  like  carrying  coals  to  Newcastle,  although  a  close 
parallel  with  our  importation  of  an  Englishman's  bi- 
ographical drama  about  our  own  Lincoln.  The  The- 
atre Korsha  tried  to  keep  abreast  of  the  times  by  pro- 
ducing Rolland's  "  Danton "  and  Shelley's  "The 

277 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Cenci,"  while  the  Zon  Theatre  revived  "  Wilhelm 
Tell "  and  the  Theatre  Nezlobina  continued  its  old 
repertory  for  a  time. 

Petrograd,  as  I  have  indicated,  has  suffered  the 
most  serious  deterioration.  The  record  is  almost 
wholly  one  of  disaster.  Vsevolod  Meyerhold  and 
Nikolai  Yevreynoff,  outstanding  talents  of  the  theatre 
in  the  northern  capital,  gave  up  their  anchorage  there 
long  ago  —  the  latter  before  I  arrived  in  Russia  and  the 
former  shortly  after  I  left.  Since  then,  they  have 
been  wanderers,  like  the  late  Pavel  Orlienieff.  Yev- 
reynoff still  tours  the  provinces,  presenting  a  new  play 
of  his  own,  "  The  Chief."  Meyerhold,  more  brilliant 
and  volatile,  less  determined  and  less  sure  of  himself 
than  either  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  or  the  Kamerny, 
has  played  hide  and  seek  with  the  Soviet.  Stani- 
slavsky ignored  it,  or  defied  it.  Tairoff  frankly 
courted  it,  though  denying  a  place  on  his  stage  for 
its  propaganda.  After  various  experiences  with  the 
Reds  in  the  north,  with  the  Whites  in  the  Crimea, 
recantation  and  return  to  Petrograd,  Meyerhold  has 
recently  accepted  from  the  Soviet  the  direction  of  the 
dispossessed  and  desperate  company  of  the  old  The- 
atre Nezlobina  in  Moscow,  now  housed  in  the  Zon  The- 
tre.  With  no  playwright,  since  the  death  of  Leonid 
Andreieff  in  1919  and  of  Alexander  Blok  in  1921,  to 
provide  for  him  the  kind  of  stylized  and  expression- 
istic  material  he  needs,  and  with  only  a  handful  of 
young,  inexperienced  players  left,  after  he  had  dis- 
charged the  stiff  and  hide-bound  elder  members  of  the 

278 


The  Path  of  Storm 


Nezlobin  company,  he  has  not  yet  accomplished  any- 
thing of  moment  in  his  new  field. 

The  flood  of  new  theatres  and  of  individual  pro- 
ductions made  in  connection  with  the  Soviet's  avowed 
purpose  to  make  the  playhouse  an  additional  engine 
of  Communist  propaganda  began  to  appear  back  in 
1919,  as  soon  as  the  Government  had  time  to  devote 
to  the  subject.  Most  of  these  misguided  experiments 
in  the  regimentation  of  art  have  failed.  Some  of 
them  endured  only  a  few  weeks.  To  such  as  these, 
however,  the  roster  of  new  enterprises  during  the  last 
four  years  chiefly  belongs.  The  exceptional  venture 
was  the  one  which  admitted  allegiance  only  to  the  art 
of  the  theatre,  and  most  of  these  have  persisted  and 
prospered. 

The  illiterate  and  upstart  nature  of  some  of  the 
Soviet's  Quixotic  undertakings  is  apparent  from  their 
"  smart  aleck  "  titles  —  Terevsat,  or  Theatre  of  Revo- 
lutionary Satire,  in  which  an  attempt  to  combine  dra- 
matic and  motion  picture  episodes  was  a  dismal  failure ; 
and  Moscomdram,  the  Moscow  Theatre  of  the  Com- 
munistic Drama,  which  closed  almost  as  soon  as  it 
opened  through  lack  of  plays  fulfilling  its  mongrel 
cognomen.  A  similar  maneuver  in  the  requisition  of 
the  Theatre  of  Operetta,  formerly  in  the  Nikitskaya 
and  later  in  the  Nikolskaya  in  the  premises  of  the 
restaurant,  Slavyansky  Bazar,  had  greater  success 
through  limiting  its  propaganda  to  ridicule  of  the 
reactionary  generals  and  armies  in  the  manner  of  our 
own  song  and  dance  revues,  with  a  suggestion  by  the 

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The  Russian  Theatre 


way  concerning  the  advantages  of  comradeship  and 
industry  among  Communists. 

The  most  ambitious  efforts  to  make  to  order  a  pro- 
letarian drama  are  associated  with  the  names  of  two 
futurist  poets,  who  were  rising  to  dubious  fame  while 
I  was  in  Moscow.  The  first  of  them,  an  "  occasional  " 
piece  composed  to  celebrate  the  third  anniversary  of  the 
Soviet  in  November,  1920,  was  the  work  of  Vassily 
Kamyensky  and  bore  the  name  of  "  Stenka  Razin," 
a  bandit  leader  of  ancient  times.  Presented  simul- 
taneously in  the  open  air  in  Petrograd  and  in  the 
Great  State  Theatre  in  Moscow,  it  enlisted  its  spec- 
tators as  participants,  the  bandit's  gang,  and  the  press 
naively  or  wittingly  admitted  that  it  was  true  to  life! 

The  second  of  these  huge  pageant  dramas  of  the 
revolution  was  "  Mystery-Bouffee  "  by  Kamyensky's 
friend,  Vladimir  Mayakovsky,  produced  under  the 
direction  of  Meyerhold  and  Vladimir  Bebutoff  in  the 
Zon  Theatre  in  Moscow  as  a  part  of  the  May  Day 
festivities  in  1921.  Starting  with  Noah  and  the  Flood, 
this  bombastic  allegory  surveys  all  civilization,  cele- 
brates the  triumph  of  Communism  and  ends  with 
a  plea  for  self-effacing  work  and  the  electrified  state. 
"  Mystery-Bouffee  "  cost  enormous  sums  to  produce 
and  ran  for  a  hundred  performances. 

The  theatre  once  more  was  drafted  for  the  celebra- 
tion of  the  fourth  anniversary  of  the  Soviet  Revolu- 
tion in  November,  1921.  This  time  the  task  of  apos- 
trophising Communism  was  entrusted  to  Isadora  Dun- 
can who,  six  months  previously,  had  arrived  in  Moscow 

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The  Path  of  Storm 


and  had  accepted  a  studio  and  liberal  credits  from  the 
Government.  Returning  to  the  stage  in  person  after 
a  long  absence,  she  devised  the  allegory  of  the  Russian 
workman  struggling  to  free  himself  from  his  chains 
and  the  Tsar's  heel  as  accompaniment  to  Tchaikovsky's 
Sixth  Symphony,  a  daring  feat  when  it  is  recalled  that 
the  audience  was  asked  to  listen  again  and  again  to  the 
old  tabooed  national  anthem,  and  adjust  it  to  the 
dancer's  newer  meaning.  Even  the  Soviet  press  gave 
contradictory  verdicts,  but  until  her  recent  return  to 
America,  Miss  Duncan  remained  in  Moscow,  housed  in 
the  magnificent  residence  of  the  ballerina,  Balashova, 
which  was  confiscated  on  the  latter's  flight  abroad  with- 
out permission. 

Of  other  new  ventures  in  the  last  four  years,  out- 
side the  category  of  the  proletarian,  two  may  be  men- 
tioned before  passing  on  to  several  which  deserve  fuller 
consideration :  the  Theatre  of  Comedy  and  Melodrama, 
founded  by  artists  regularly  connected  elsewhere  but 
unable  to  subsist  on  a  single  salary,  where  Wilde's 
"  The  Picture  of  Dorian  Grey  "  was  sadly  misinter- 
preted; and  the  New  State  Theatre,  housed  in  the  old 
Theatre  Nezlobina  and  just  as  completely  out  of  touch 
with  the  times  as  the  company  which  was  dispossessed 
and  nearly  starved  before  being  handed  over  to  the 
exacting  mercies  of  Meyerhold. 

One  of  the  noteworthy  new  enterprises,  to  which  I 
have  referred,  is  the  First  State  Theatre  for  Children, 
naive  enough  in  its  program  and  repertory,  definitely 
constructive  in  its  work  and  fulfilling  a  distinct  need, 

281 


The  Russian  Theatre 


but  founded  —  ironically  enough  —  according  to  the 
authority  of  Zinaida  Hippius,  author  of  "  The  Green 
Ring "  and  wife  of  the  novelist,  Dmitry  Merezh- 
kovsky,  with  hush  money  provided  by  Lunatcharsky 
from  the  public  treasury  for  Mme.  Paskar,  one  of  his 
mistresses. 

The  Children's  Theatre  opened  in  the  summer  of 
1920  in  a  remodeled  shed  near  the  old  English  Club, 
and  since  then  has  built  up  the  following  repertory: 
"  Mowgli,"  a  heroic  fairy  tale  made  from  Kipling's 
"  Jungle  Book  " ;  "  Nursery  Rhymes,"  a  dramatiza- 
tion from  Musorgsky;  "The  Pasha  and  the  Bear," 
a  vaudeville  from  Scribe ;  "  The  Nightingale,"  a  lyric 
fairy  tale  from  the  story  of  Andersen;  "The  Color 
Box,"  by  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  contemporary 
Russian  writers,  Alexei  Remizoff ;  and  "  Tom  Saw- 
yer," a  dramatization  from  Mark  Twain's  famous 
story.  T.  S.  Fedotoff,  who  has  worked  for  the 
Kamerny  Theatre,  was  the  scenic  artist  and  special 
music  has  been  composed  by  Forterre,  Vassilenko,  and 
Gretchaninoff.  The  theatre  gives  performances  about 
four  times  a  week;  its  audiences  are  limited  to  chil- 
dren and  their  teachers  or  guardians ;  and  its  tickets  are 
distributed  to  each  school  in  the  city  about  four  or  five 
times  a  year. 

Perhaps  the  most  startling  development  of  the  diffi- 
cult years  —  startling  to  those  who  knew  the  anti-Sem- 
itic Moscow  of  Tsarist  days  —  is  the  movement  for  a 
Jewish  theatre,  a  movement  which  has  resulted  in  two 
solely  Jewish  stages,  both  now  in  their  fourth  season. 

282 


The  Path  of  Storm 


On  one  of  them,  the  Jewish  Kamerny  Theatre,  the 
plays  are  given  in  Yiddish;  on  the  other,  the  Studio 
Theatre  Gabima,  only  the  purest  Hebrew  is  heard. 
The  former  is  the  more  pretentious  and  has  been  the 
busier  of  the  two;  the  latter  has  emerged  from  com- 
parative obscurity  at  a  single  stroke  by  an  amazingly 
perfect  and  moving  production  of  St.  An-sky's  folk- 
tragedy,  "The  Dibbuk,"  already  introduced  to  the 
New  York  stage  by  the  Yiddish  Art  Theatre. 

The  Jewish  Kamerny  Theatre  owes  its  existence 
to  a  group  of  artists  of  that  race,  including  Granov- 
sky,  Rosovsky,  Moosan,  Achron  and  Altman,  who  de- 
termined in  1919  to  found  such  a  stage  and  six  months 
later  opened  its  doors  in  Petrograd,  thanks  to  funds 
provided  by  the  Petrograd  Soviet.  In  its  first  season 
it  produced  Maeterlinck's  "The  Blind,"  "Uriel 
Acosta "  by  Karl  Gutzkow,  and  Sholom  Ash's  "  In 
the  Winter."  Deciding  to  move  to  Moscow  in  the 
summer  of  1920,  it  encountered  delays  and  did  not 
reopen  until  January  I,  1921,  in  an  auditorium  on  the 
second  floor  of  a  street  branching  off  the  Tverskaya. 
Its  repertory  since  then  has  been  a  bill  of  three  short 
plays  by  Sholom  Ash,  Veiter's  "  Before  Dawn,"  and 
Ash's  "  The  God  of  Revenge."  The  last  named  is  its 
most  satisfactory  achievement. 

Seating  only  eighty  and  drawing  a  cosmopolitan  au- 
dience —  due  to  the  fear  of  wealthy  Jews  to  be  seen 
in  so  modest  a  place,  and  of  the  strictly  orthodox  to 
be  seen  in  a  playhouse  at  all  —  the  Jewish  Kamerny 
Theatre  is  still  an  experimental  laboratory  on  its  way 

283 


The  Russian  Theatre 


to  becoming  a  full-fledged  theatre.  Its  director,  A. 
M.  Granovsky,  was  trained  under  Reinhardt  in  Ber- 
lin. Its  scenic  and  mural  artists,  Marc  Shagal  and  J. 
Rabinovitch,  are  known  internationally  among  modern- 
ist painters.  Its  company  numbers  thirty-five,  its  staff 
ninety-eight  —  more  than  one  to  each  seat  in  the  house ! 
No  one  has  received  a  salary  in  over  a  year,  but  the 
Soviet  gives  them  small  rations  cooked  in  the  build- 
ing and  rooms  to  live  in,  so  why  worry  about  salary? 

The  Gabima,  accounted  by  many  as  Moscow's  most 
interesting  theatre,  has  had  an  even  more  prohibitively 
difficult  struggle  than  its  Yiddish  rival.  Until  its 
production  of  "  The  Dibbuk,"  it  had  been  known  only 
for  a  few  short  plays  and  "  The  Wandering  Jew," 
which  gave  observers,  however,  a  foretaste  of  the  in- 
sight and  imagination  displayed  in  staging  An-sky's 
strange  legend.  Yevgeny  Vakhtangoff,  director  of  the 
Third  Studio  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  produced 
"  The  Dibbuk  "  for  the  Gabima  in  a  spirit  of  con- 
sciously exaggerated  ecstasy.  His  death  will  be  felt 
keenly  here  as  well  as  on  his  own  stage. 

The  exiles  remain  to  be  considered.  The  Ballet 
has  lost  heavily:  Karsavina  to  private  life;  Novikoff 
and  Miles.  Anderson  and  Balashova  to  Western  Eu- 
rope; Fokine  and  Fokina  and  Mile.  Krieger  to  Amer- 
ica. Shaliapin,  the  uncrowned  Tsar  of  both  stage  and 
song,  has  returned  to  us.  Fyodor  Kommissarzhevsky 
closed  his  tiny  playhouse  in  Moscow  in  1919,  went  to 
London,  made  many  free  lance  productions  there  and 
has  joined  us,  too,  as  stage  director  for  the  Theatre 

284 


The  Path  of  Storm 


Guild.  And  of  course  there  is  Nikita  Balieff,  of 
Letutchaya  Muish,  The  Bat,  the  Chauve-Souris. 
And  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  impending.  Really  these 
Russians  who  have  brought  themselves  and  their  the- 
atre to  America  will  require  a  chapter  all  to  them- 
selves ! 


285 


CHAPTER  XVII 
"  PLUS  CA  CHANGE  " 

MEANWHILE,  let  us  analyze  briefly  the  path  of  storm 
of  the  four  years  we  have  just  passed  in  review. 
What  proof  do  they  yield  that  two  epochs  have  ter- 
minated —  the  period  of  national  isolation  and  the  pe- 
riod of  rigid  government  control?  What  have  been 
the  dreams  and  ideals  achieved  and  unrealized  ?  What 
has  this  strict  official  supervision  entailed  on  the  part 
of  audiences  and  artists?  Why  was  it  abandoned 
and  what  followed  inevitably  in  its  wake?  What  is 
its  residue?  What  are  its  implications?  What 
price  has  the  Russian  theatre  paid  for  this  stupendous 
experiment,  this  major  operation  on  a  living  body 
without  benefit  of  anesthetic? 

It  is  obvious  without  discussion  or  proof  that  the 
age  of  ingrowing  national  self-sufficiency  is  over. 
Artists,  individually  and  in  groups,  have  swarmed 
abroad.  Some  of  them  have  reached  us;  others  are 
on  their  way.  Still  others  are  straining  at  the  leash 
in  Moscow  and  Petrograd,  and  their  departure  seems 
to  be  only  a  question  of  time  and  the  receptive  capacity 
of  their  foreign  patrons.  On  their  ultimate  return 
from  world  wandering,  they  will  carry  back  esthetic 
trophies  of  their  tours  —  probably  not  new  theories  or 

286 


Plus  £a  Change  " 


new  technique,  for  they  themselves  have  developed 
inquiry  and  experiment  along  these  lines  farther  than 
any  other  contemporary  stage;  but  at  least  new  sub- 
ject matter  for  their  playwrights,  new  angles  of  char- 
acterization for  their  players,  new  world  horizons. 
They,  in  turn,  will  have  influenced  the  stages  they 
have  visited,  a  phase  of  the  situation  which,  in  its 
American  aspect,  will  be  considered  in  Chapter  XVIII. 
Most  important  of  all,  the  habit  of  isolation  has 
been  destroyed,  and  henceforth  the  road  is  open  to 
exchange  of  new  ideas  between  Russia  and  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

The  return  to  private  management  and  operation 
and  the  revival  of  the  pre-war  repertory  with 
the  collapse  of  Soviet  superintendence,  has  not  been  so 
simple  and  placid  a  cycle.  "Plus  qa  change"  de- 
spite its  connotation  of  the  wheel  that  has  come  full 
circle,  implies,  too,  the  anxiety,  the  uncertainty,  the 
aggravation,  the  restless  and  disturbing  adjustment  of 
constantly  shifting  conditions.  In  this  difficult  and 
wearing  process,  the  superficial  is  all  too  likely  to  ap- 
pear to  be  the  fundamental,  the  temporary  to  be  the 
permanent. 

The  vitality  that  underlies  the  institution  of  the  the- 
atre in  Russia,  however,  has  been  equal  to  all  of  these 
onslaughts.  We  have  seen  how  that  vitality  with- 
stood the  moral,  economic  and  material  strictures  of 
war  and  the  earlier  days  of  the  Revolution.  It  has 
been  stronger,  though,  than  the  most  sanguine  had 
hoped,  and  that  strength  has  enabled  it  to  weather 

287 


The  Russian  Theatre 


the  ignorance,  the  meddling  and  fanaticism  of  those 
who  have  tried  to  draft  it  in  enslaved  service  to  their 
ulterior  motives.  After  its  time  of  trial  and  perse- 
cution, the  theatre  is  dazed  and  reduced  to  humiliating 
expedients  to  carry  on  at  all,  but  it  is  still  the  most 
normal  and  the  most  vital  of  all  the  social  institutions 
of  Russia,  and  its  survival  is  replete  with  evidence 
proving  the  necessity  of  freedom  in  art. 

It  is  illuminating,  therefore,  to  read  in  a  letter  from 
my  friend  Yarovoff: 

"  Not  so  long  ago  we  declared  the  theatre  a  mighty 
weapon  for  the  enlightenment  of  the  masses.  We 
distributed  tickets  among  workers'  organizations  for  a 
nominal  sum  of  3,000  to  25,000  rubles  each,  or  often 
free  of  charge.  We  exercised  sharp  control  over  the 
repertory  and  severely  punished  theatre  directors  for 
every  play  that  did  not  agree  with  our  revolutionary 
ideas.  Many  directors  were  completely  ruined.  Art- 
ists were  mobilized  and  sent  to  play,  without  their  con- 
sent, even  to  the  provinces. 

"  Today  —  if  you  have  the  money  and  can  pay  the 
Soviets  —  you  are  permitted  to  have  ten,  a  hundred, 
a  thousand  theatres  if  you  like,  and  you  may  do 
with  them  whatever  you  wish.  Revolutionary  ideas? 
Propaganda?  Communism?  Forget  it!  Just  make 
money  and  pay  the  taxes,  the  rent,  etc. 

"  It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  after  four  years  of 
spiritual  starvation,  we  have  a  consuming  desire  to 
refresh  our  emotions  in  a  private  theatre  where  no 
one  will  annoy  us  with  propaganda  or  feed  us  plays 

288 


Photograph  by  A.  Bobkoff,  M.D.,  Moscow 

PLUS  CA  CHANGE.      THE  TOVARISHCH  OF  THE  RED  ARMY  DIS- 
PLACES THE  BLACK  HUSSAR  IN  THE  BALLET  DRESSING-ROOM 


"  Plus  £a  Change  " 


and  music  by  dramatists  and  composers  standing  on  a 
'  revolutionary  platform.'  For  four  years  our  daily 
reading  has  been  limited  exclusively  to  the  official 
Communist  newspapers,  until  we  are  all  so  well  versed 
in  Communist  matters  that  every  educated  man,  re- 
gardless of  his  political  convictions,  can  easily  write  a 
'  Steklovitsa'  (current  mot  for  editorial,  from  N. 
Stekloff,  chief  of  the  staff  of  '  Izvestia').  We  have 
absorbed  so  much  Communism  free  of  charge  that 
we  are  unwilling  to  spend  money  to  hear  any  more 
of  it." 

As  usual,  of  course,  there  is  another  side  to  the 
passing  of  the  cycle  of  government  control  of  the 
theatres,  and  this  emerges  in  another  letter  from  the 
same  source.  Beneath  the  official  regimentation  of 
play,  player  and  playhouse  for  propagandist  purposes 
lay  a  Utopian  design,  an  extravagant  and  impractical 
motive  whose  disappearance  with  the  return  of  the 
money-grubber  has  left  the  scene  somehow  poorer. 

"  For  years,"  writes  Yarovoff,  "  our  motto  was 
'  Everything  free  of  charge !  Everything  from  the 
hands  of  the  Government ! '  Now  we  have  abruptly 
turned  in  the  opposite  direction :  '  Everything  for 
money ! '  Idealists  and  friends  of  art  view  the  future 
with  alarm.  What  new  embarrassment  will  it  have  in 
store?  During  the  last  four  years,  apparently,  the 
Government  has  been  trying  to  profess  a  less  material 
conception  of  art  and  the  theatre.  '  Art  as  a  channel 
for  the  political  education  of  the  masses '  could  have 
nothing  in  common  with  art  for  mere  amusement's 

289 


The  Russian  Theatre 


sake  or  as  a  source  of  commercial  profit.  The  Soviet 
undertook  a  project,  the  like  of  which  has  never  been 
known  before  in  the  history  of  civilization.  It  as- 
sumed the  monopoly  of  art ;  it  made  a  titanic  effort  to 
lift  the  various  forms  of  art  to  unattainable  heights; 
it  confiscated  and  supported  for  ostensibly  ideal  mo- 
tives all  the  theatres,  picture  galleries,  palaces  and  mu- 
seums. 

"  We  the  contemporaries  of  this  historic  project  see 
only  its  sinister  aspects.  We  are  disappointed  that 
nothing  tangible  has  been  accomplished.  We  are 
shocked  to  see  our  writers  and  artists  in  the  grip  of 
starvation,  apparently  as  a  result  of  this  course.  But 
when  our  days  have  passed  into  legendary  history, 
perhaps  mankind  will  yield  recognition  to  the  flam- 
ing faith  and  the  noble  if  fanatical  impulse  of  some 
of  those  who  tried  to  mold  therrk  Posterity  may  re- 
call that  in  these  years  no  theatre  dared  cater  to  the 
lower  instincts  of  the  masses.  Even  the  theatres  hos- 
tile to  the  Revolution  paid  to  it  the  tribute  of  daring 
to  produce  nothing  but  the  classical  plays  of  the  various 
literatures  of  the  world. 

"  Contrast  with  this,  the  situation  which  confronts 
us  now.  *  Everything  for  money ! '  Money  is  not 
to  be  found  where  ideas  reside.  Thrown  on  their 
own  resources,  many  of  the  theatres  advertise  a  reper- 
tory of  a  frivolous  and  even  a  degraded  quality.  The 
latter  seldom  prospers,  for  the  Moscow  public  resents 
mere  morbid  depravity.  But  the  music  hall  programs, 
with  their  cheap  Armenian  and  Jewish  anecdotes, 

290 


Plus  £a  Change  " 


attract  a  larger  clientele  than  the  better  concerts  and 
the  serious  plays  at  the  established  theatres." 

It  must  be  remembered,  of  course,  that  these  estab- 
lished theatres,  to  which  I  have  introduced  you  in  the 
course  of  this  book,  do  still  exist,  that  they  have  kept 
their  doors  open  on  their  traditional  repertory  under 
peace,  war,  revolution,  government  control  and  the 
return  to  private  operation,  and  that  they  have  always 
found  and  still  find  an  audience  interested  in  their 
activities.  It  is  these  theatres  and  their  record  which 
justify  the  concluding  phrase  of  the  proverb,  whose 
opening  words  give  title  to  this  chapter. 

In  the  theatre  life  of  Moscow  today,  a  strange  new 
figure  is  discernible  —  the  unlettered,  unrefined  peace- 
profiteer,  or  Nep-man,  whose  curious  nickname  is 
formed  from  the  initials  of  the  Soviet's  sanction  for 
private  trading,  or  "  New  Economic  Policy."  Even 
in  the  serious  theatres,  he  and  his  kept  and  bejewelled 
women  appear  as  a  minor  stratum,  but  he  is  most  at 
home  in  the  music  halls,  at  the  opera  or  the  ballet. 

"  A  ticket  for  Isadora  Duncan's  dance-concert  is 
dearer  than  one  for  a  symphonic  concert,"  writes  Vic- 
tor Yus  in  a  recent  number  of  Ecran,  a  newly 
established  periodical  of  the  theatre.  "  The  Nep- 
men  go,  of  course,  to  see  Isadora  Duncan  dance. 
Higher  prices  mean  to  them  a  better  show.  Where- 
ever  tickets  are  expensive,  '  all  Moscow '  may  be  seen 
— -that  is,  today's  Moscow,  the  Moscow  of  the  Nep- 
men.  Between  the  acts  they  buy  and  sell  anything, 
everything  at  astronomical  figures  —  whether  they  pos- 

291 


The  Russian  Theatre 


sess  the  goods  or  not.  The  actor,  of  course,  does  not 
know  what  to  make  of  this  new  public.  The  Nep- 
man  belongs  neither  to  the  bourgeoisie,  the  democracy, 
the  intelligentsia  or  the  proletariat.  He  is  simply  a 
gambler  from  a  bucket  shop." 

To  realize  that  this  gross  and  revolting  type  is  not 
the  only  patron  of  the  theatre  in  Moscow,  it  is  neces- 
sary only  to  recall  the  protest  of  the  workmen  and 
soldiers  of  the  capital  when  the  Soviet  threatened  last 
winter  to  close  the  Great  State  Theatre,  home  of  the 
opera  and  ballet.  In  the  words  of  Yarovoff  descrip- 
tive of  that  episode,  "  Of  all  the  theatres,  the  Moscow 
proletarian  prefers  the  opera.  Perhaps  its  folk  tales 
are  more  fascinating  to  him.  Strange  events,  cos- 
tumes and  music  take  him  far  away  from  his  every- 
day life  and  labor.  In  the  dreamland  of  the  lyric  stage 
he  can  forget  the  hardships  of  today  and  the  troubles 
of  tomorrow.  He  loses  himself  in  a  romantic  new 
world.  It  makes  no  difference  that  he  seldom  under- 
stands the  sense  and  the  implications  of  the  story  and 
the  music.  It  is  the  strange  'erflOi/mal  atmosphere 
with  which  opera  surrounds  him  that  1*e  appreciates 
most.  " 

In  the  presence  of  these  sincere  and  naive  patrons, 
no  matter  whether  they  understand  fully  or  not,  and  of 
the  residue  of  the  old-time  audiences,  the  artists  are  in- 
spired to  continue  their  work  —  to  continue  in  the  face 
of  administrative  and  economic  and  material  handi- 
caps, which  would  discourage  and  silence  them  and 
drive  them  to  an  alternate  livelihood,  if  they  were 

292 


Plus?  Qa  Change  " 


not  more  whole-heartedly  devoted  to  their  profession 
than  those  with  whom  we  are  familiar. 

The  case  of  the  Nezlobin  company  in  Moscow  is 
illustrative  of  the  dogged  determination  of  the  Russian 
actor  to  cling  to  his  profession.  Just  before  Christ- 
mas, 1921,  despite  the  fact  that  the  theatres  had  been 
supposedly  released  from  government  control,  the  The- 
atre Nezlobina  was  confiscated  and  the  company  dis- 
possessed and  thrown  into  the  street.  Threatened 
from  time  to  time,  since  1919,  on  the  score  of  its  "  re- 
actionary "  repertory,  including  such  plays  as  Artsui- 
basheff's  "  Jealousy  "  and  Rostand's  "  L'Aiglon,"  the 
company  had  managed  to  ward  off  the  final  catastrophe 
and  had  preserved  the  cooperative  nature,  which  it  had 
assumed  in  1917  on  the  reopening  of  the  playhouse, 
gutted  by  the  1914  fire.  For  two  months  the  members 
met  daily  in  the  original  home  of  Balieff's  Letutchaya 
Mnish  as  guests  of  the  management,  to  formulate  pro- 
tests and  to  keep  in  trim  through  rehearsal.  Assigned 
finally  to  the  cold,  humid  and  unequipped  Zon  Theatre, 
the  majority  o'  ..ic  elder  members  of  the  company  soon 
found  themselves  out  of  harmony  with  the  radical 
ideas  of  the  new  regisseur,  Meyerhold,  were  discharged 
by  him  and  added  to  the  city's  starving  unemployed. 

Even  in  the  companies  where  there  was  no  conflict 
over  the  repertory,  the  actor  faced,  and  still  faces,  al- 
most superhuman  obstacles  to  obtaining  the  minimum 
of  food  necessary  for  sustenance.  Monthly  salaries, 
both  governmental  and  private,  have  been  insufficient 
to  pay  for  a  week's  or,  at  times,  even  a  day's  living. 

293 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Traveling  groups,  therefore,  were  organized  to  play 
in  the  factories  and  military  caserns  in  and  near  Mos- 
cow, where  the  artists  received  their  pay  "  in  kind  " 
—  flour,  sugar,  meat,  etc.  Even  a  group  from  the 
Moscow  Art  Theatre  was  thus  routed  through  the 
outlying  districts  of  the  city. 

Two  other  means  have  been  devised  to  meet  the 
emergency  since  the  Soviet  washed  its  hands  of 
further  responsibility  for  the  welfare  of  the  artists. 
One  has  been  the  founding  of  midnight  cabarets  by 
the  different  companies,  in  which  fabulous  prices  are 
charged  for  refreshments,  for  chances  in  lotteries  and 
for  the  privilege  of  watching  celebrated  artists  off  their 
dignity.  Even  the  Small  State  Theatre  and  its  head, 
Prince  Sumbatoff,  have  yielded  to  this  humiliating  ex- 
pedient. 

Another  device,  called  "  Haltoora,"  is  that  by  which 
an  actor  is  enabled  to  play  two  and  three,  and  some- 
times even  more,  roles  in  as  many  theatres  in  a  single 
evening,  thus  adding  substantially  to  his  income,  but 
substracting  as  substantially  from  the  effectiveness  of 
his  work.  Not  only  badly  paid  beginners,  but  the 
most  celebrated  players  and  singers,  have  been  driven 
to  this  subterfuge,  and  a  duped  public  often  wonders 
why  a  famous  artist,  announced  on  the  hoardings  and 
in  the  program,  plays  so  badly  in  the  first  two  acts  and 
so  superbly  in  the  final  scenes. 

Two  questions  concerned  with  the  period  of  govern- 
mental control  of  the  theatres  will  probably  never  be 
fully  answered.  First  of  all,  how  sincere  was  the 

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Plus  Qa  Cliange  " 


ideal  toward  a  better  theatre,  referred  to  a  few  pages 
back  by  my  friend  Yarovoff,  and  how  nearly  possible 
was  its  attainment  if  conditions  had  been  favorable? 
And  in  the  second  place,  how  much  has  the  Russian 
theatre  been  retarded  by  this  major  operation  on  its 
living  sentient  body? 

I  am  not  so  sure  as  Yarovoff  seems  to  be  that  history 
will  grant  to  the  Soviet's  theatrical  policy  any  higher 
place  than  to  our  own  numerous  well-meaning  but 
futile  attempts  to  "  reform  "  the  stage  which  have 
become  the  butt  of  the  newspaper  paragraphers,  and 
even  of  such  plays  as  "  The  Torchbearers."  The  final 
rating  may  not  even  be  so  high  when  the  deeply  sinister 
influences  of  any  kind  of  propaganda  in  art  are  fully 
appreciated.  Perhaps  the  days  of  austere  paternal- 
ism were  to  be  preferred  to  the  orgy  of  materialism 
which  has  ensued,  but  perhaps,  too,  the  orgy  is  the 
logical  reaction  from  what  went  before  and  perhaps 
it  would  never  have  developed,  if  the  theatres  had 
been  permitted  to  go  their  way  without  interference. 

In  any  case,  the  trivial  aspects  of  the  contemporary 
Russian  theatre  will  pass.  They  are  not  the  normal 
expression  of  the  Russian  creative  and  receptive  emo- 
tions. Meanwhile  —  plus  ga  change  —  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre  and  the  Kamerny  Theatre  hew  persistently 
to  their  established  lines  and  carry  their  audiences 
along  with  them. 

The  same  debatable  situation  exists  with  reference 
to  the  retardation  of  the  impetus  of  the  modern  Russian 
theatre  as  a  result  of  this  ulterior  attempt  to  control  its 

295 


The  Russian  Theatre 


current.  I  have  no  doubt  in  my  own  mind  that  the 
impetus  has  been  retarded,  just  as  any  natural  proc- 
ess is  slowed  down  when  the  element  of  self -conscious- 
ness is  introduced.  I  see  one  advantage,  and  only  one, 
to  be  gained  from  the  experience  of  the  last  four 
years.  And  that  is  that  the  definiteness  and  complete- 
ness of  the  failure  to  draft  the  theatre  into  service  in  a 
social  program  will  -prove  for  all  time  the  futility  of 
mixing  propaganda  with  art.  I  haven't  much  faith, 
though,  that  any  such  proof  will  be  admitted  by  those 
who  prefer  to  have  it  otherwise.  They  will  say,  no 
doubt,  that  the  conditions  were  not  favorable,  bide  their 
time  and  try  again. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  out  of  this  chaos,  this  welter  of 
dislocation,  this  scene  where  integrity  of  purpose  can  be 
retained  but  at  a  fearful  material  and  spiritual  cost, 
there  has  arisen  a  dream  of  lands  beyond  the  horizon. 
That  dream  has  not  shaped  itself  all  of  a  sudden,  but 
has  been  growing  imperceptibly  through  the  years, 
and  in  it  America  has  gradually  appeared  as  the 
temporary  haven  and  rallying  ground  for  the  dra- 
matic art  of  Muscovy. 


296 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  RUSSIAN  THEATRE  IN  AMERICA 

BEYOND  the  horizon,  America.  Beyond  the  horizon 
for  the  last  two  decades,  America.  Growing  more 
and  more  distinct  with  the  flight  of  time.  A  tantaliz- 
ing magnet,  but  coy.  For  the  most  part  a  graveyard 
of  brave  pioneer  effort.  In  latter  months,  though, 
a  repentant  host,  eager  to  make  up  for  past  incivili- 
ties, and  by  its  eagerness  the  greater  lure  to  still  other 
artistic  immigrants. 

The  nation-wide  vogue  of  BaliefFs  Chauve-Souris, 
the  coming  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  the  associa- 
tion of  Morris  Gest  with  both  of  these  ventures,  the 
triumphant  return  of  Shaliapin  —  these  are  the  cap- 
stones of  a  structure  almost  twenty  years  in  the  build- 
ing. The  contemporary  invasion  of  America  by  the 
Russian  theatre  is  so  legitimately  a  chapter  of  the 
record  of  that  stage  today,  that  it  must  be  admitted 
in  this  survey  alongside  the  narrative  of  the  last  four 
years  in  the  playhouses  of  Moscow  and  Petrograd. 
Moscow,  Petrograd,  New  York.  A  third  home  has 
been  found  for  the  Russian  theatre. 

To  understand  fully  the  significance  of  this  inva- 
sion, it  is  helpful  to  recall  not  only  the  Russian  art- 
ists who  have  come  in  person,  bringing  their  dramatic 

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wares  of  one  kind  and  another,  but  also  the  long 
roster  of  efforts  by  our  own  theatre  to  interpret  for 
us  many  of  the  outstanding  examples  of  the  Russian 
drama.  To  the  former,  I  have  made  numerous  ran- 
dom references  in  the  course  of  this  book,  but  their 
story  must  be  viewed  as  a  whole  to  become  really  elo- 
quent. And  while  the  latter  roster  of  the  Russian  the- 
atre in  America  by  proxy  is  more  a  matter  of 
drama  than  of  the  theatre,  its  rehearsal  will,  I  am 
sure,  contribute  to  a  clearer  conception  of  why  we  are 
ready  today  to  deny  the  barriers  of  a  foreign  tongue 
and  accept  and  appreciate  where  once  we  were  indiffer- 
ent and  even  hostile. 

It  will  suffice,  I  think,  in  a  resume  of  our  own  efforts 
at  placing  the  plays  of  the  Russians  on  our  stage,  to 
range  them  under  the  dramatists  themselves  and  to 
ignore  for  the  most  part  the  temporal  order  of  their 
arrival.  The  main  function  after  all,  which  such  a 
catalogue  can  serve,  is  to  indicate  the  extent  of  the 
impact  our  intelligence  and  our  sympathies  have  under- 
gone. 

One  of  the  first  of  the  Russian  playwrights  to  be 
introduced  to  this  country  was  Count  Alexei  Tolstoy, 
whose  spectacular  historical  tragedy,  "  Tsar  Fyodor 
Ivanovitch,"  is  one  of  the  mainstays  of  the  Moscow 
Art  Theatre  repertory.  The  player  towered  over  the 
playwright,  however,  when  "  The  Death  of  Ivan  the 
Terrible,"  the  predecessor  to  "  Tsar  Fyodor "  in 
dramatic  trilogy,  was  set  upon  the  stage  of  the  Knicker- 

298 


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The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


bocker  Theatre,  New  York,  in  March,  1904,  by  Rich- 
ard Mansfield. 

The  plays  of  Count  Alexei's  more  famous  cousin, 
but  the  less  able  dramatist,  Count  Lyoff  Tolstoy,  ar- 
rived with  us  early  and  remained  to  serve  as  stimulus 
to  two  of  the  leaders  of  the  new  school  of  scenic  de- 
sign. Our  first  stage  acquaintance  with  the  great  re- 
cluse was  not  properly  as  dramatist,  for  "  Resurrec- 
tion, "  in  which  Blanche  Walsh  appeared  at  the  Vic- 
toria Theatre,  New  York,  in  1903,  and  "  Anna  Kare- 
nina,"  which  Virginia  Harned  produced  at  the  Herald 
Square  Theatre,  September  2,  1907,  were  really  only 
dramatizations  of  Tolstoy's  novels.  "  Redemption  " 
("  The  Living  Corpse  ")  tempted  Arthur  Hopkins  and 
John  Barrymore  in  the  fall  of  1918,  and  provided 
Robert  Edmond  Jones  with  one  of  the  finest  oppor- 
tunities for  stylized  realistic  interiors  he  has  ever  had. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  play  as  staged  at  the  Plymouth 
Theatre,  New  York,  October  3,  1918,  was  not  es- 
sentially Russian,  but  between  producer,  actor  and  de- 
signer, "  Redemption  "  actually  emerged  better  than 
Tolstoy  himself  had  builded.  No  corresponding  syn- 
thesis was  at  hand  to  redeem  "  The  Power  of  Dark- 
ness "  at  the  Theatre  Guild,  January  19,  1920,  al- 
though Lee  Simonson  painted  into  one  scene,  the  final 
episode  of  confession  in  the  barn,  the  self -sacrificial 
ecstasy  of  Tolstoy's  denouement. 

Dostoievsky  also  arrived  betimes  on  the  scene,  at 
the  hands  of  Richard  Mansfield,  in  the  form  of  an 

299 


The  Russian  Theatre 


episodic  dramatization  of  "Crime  and  Punishment," 
by  Charles  Henry  Meltzer,  called  "Rodion  the  Stu- 
dent," and  in  a  pitifully  un-Russian  and  artificially- 
acted  version  of  the  same  novel,  which  E.  H.  Sothern 
successively  termed  in  the  course  of  a  season  with  it 
in  1907-1908:  "The  Fool  Hath  Said  in  His  Heart 
'  There  Is  No  God,'  "  "  The  Fool  Hafh  Said  in  His 
Heart,"  and  finally  "  The  Fool  Hath  Said."  Gogol, 
too,  is  singly  represented  by  a  hearty  and  flavorous 
amateur  performance  of  "  Revizor  "  at  the  hands  of 
the  Yale  University  Dramatic  Association  in  1908,  but 
this  great  and  universally  comprehensible  comedy  of 
dishonest  small  town  officials  awaits  real  recognition 
and  an  opportunity  to  make  a  fortune  for  the  pro- 
ducer who  understands  sufficiently  both  the  Russian 
and  the  American  points  of  view. 

A  single  hearing,  too,  has  been  the  lot  of  talents 
as  divergent  as  those  of  Maxim  Gorky,  Zinaida  Hip- 
pius  and  Nikolai  Yevreynoff.  Gorky,  long  familiar 
in  the  German  and  Yiddish  repertories,  finally  broke 
into  English  acquaintance  with  "  The  Lower  Depths  " 
("Night  Lodging")  when  Arthur  Hopkins  gave  it 
an  intelligent,  if  not  greatly  illuminating,  production 
at  a  series  of  matinees  beginning  December  22,  1919, 
and  for  a  few  evenings  in  April,  1920.  "  The  Green 
Ring,"  by  Zinaida  Hippius,  wife  of  Merezhovsky, 
the  novelist-playwright,  found,  at  the  Neighborhood 
Playhouse  in  the  spring  of  1922,  use  as  a  studio  piece 
for  young  players,  similar  to  that  which  had  commend 
it  to  Stanislavsky  for  the  Second  Studio  of  the  Mos- 

300 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 

cow  Art  Theatre;  but  in  New  York  it  received  in- 
ferior treatment  on  the  part  of  the  elder  members  of 
the  cast  and  won  a  much  smaller  following.  Yev- 
reynoff,  too,  is  to  us  a  dramatist  of  a  single  play  — 
"  Gay  Death,"  produced  under  title  of  "  The  Merry 
Death  "  by  the  Washington  Square  Players  at  the 
Comedy  Theatre,  October  2,  1916,  with  complete  mis- 
understanding of  its  technical  idiosyncrasies  as  mono- 
drama. 

Tchehoff  and  Andreieff  remain  with  several  pro- 
ductions to  their  credit.  Both  playwrights,  therefore, 
are  presumably  better  known  in  America  than  their 
fellows,  but  in  reality  we  are  probably  less  acquainted 
with  them  than  with  Gorky  and  the  Tolstoys,  partly 
through  a  misrepresentative  choice  of  plays  and  partly 
through  misinterpretation  of  those  chosen.  Tchehoff, 
it  is  true,  has  been  disclosed  in  both  of  his  moods  — 
as  lusty  and  gusty  farceur  in  "  The  Bear  "  and  "  The 
Marriage  Proposal  "  and  as  contemplative  realist  in 
the  episode  of  "  The  Swan  Song  "  and  the  full  length 
of  "The  Sea  Gull."  Both  the  Washington  Square 
Players  and  the  Toy  Theatre  of  Boston  produced  "  The 
Bear  "  with  insufficient  abandon  and  unction.  Rus- 
sian farce  should  be  keyed  at  an  exaggerated  pitch, 
and  played  for  all  it  is  worth.  The  Neighborhood 
Playhouse  did  "  The  Marriage  Proposal  "  April  23, 
1916.  The  Toy  Theatre,  too,  did  "  The  Swan  Song  " 
and  the  Washington  Square  Players  stumbled  through 
a  hasty  and  ill-prepared  production  of  "  The  Sea  Gull  " 
at  the  Bandbox  Theatre,  May  31,  1916.  If  any  play  in 

301 


The  Russian  Theatre 


the  entire  modern  Russian  canon  demands  the  familiar- 
ity that  breeds  control,  it  is  this  tenuous,  sensitive  and 
fragile  panorama  of  life  among  the  intelligentsia  and 
the  landed  proprietors  in  the  depressing  days  of  Tsar 
Nicholas,  prior  to  the  upflaring  of  the  1905  Revolution. 
Fifteen  months'  rehearsal  were  given  to  it  at  the  Mos- 
cow Art  Theatre;  twice  fifteen  days  at  the  most  at 
the  Bandbox,  and  the  results  were  commensurate. 

With  a  happy  exception  or  two,  Andreieff  has  been 
even  more  misrepresented  and  misinterpreted.  His 
trifles,  "  The  Beautiful  Sabine  Women,"  produced  by 
Samuel  A.  Eliot,  Jr.,  at  the  Indianapolis  Little  Theatre 
in  January,  1916,  and  by  the  Neighborhood  Play- 
house in  New  York  in  the  spring  of  1920,  and  "  Love 
of  One's  Neighbor,"  an  early  effort  of  the  Washing- 
ton Square  Players,  have  both  been  emphasized  far 
beyond  their  relative  importance. 

What  we  have  missed  most  utterly  and  almost  with- 
out exception  in  the  plays  of  Andreieff  is  his  sardonic 
challenge,  not  only  to  society  and  civilization,  but  to 
life  itself.  The  great  dramas  like  "  Anathema,"  and 
even  the  well-built  and  theatrically  effective  stage-plays 
of  his  earlier  period,  such  as  "  The  Days  of  Our 
Life,"  with  its  terrifying  realism,  have  been  too  un- 
compromising and  too  relentless  for  American  tastes, 
but  their  time,  I  am  confident,  is  coming.  When  we 
do  choose  a  play  of  Andreieff's  with  this  challenge  at 
the  heart  of  it,  we  comfortably  ignore  it  and  gloss  it 
over  with  scenic  sweetmeats.  Thus  with  the  bitter- 
ness and  disillusion  of  "  The  Life  of  Man,"  which 

302 


H    O 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


emerged  under  the  naive  treatment  of  the  Washing- 
ton Square  Players  at  the  Bandbox  Theatre,  January 
14,  1916,  as  a  kind  of  Russian  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 
Thus,  too,  in  even  greater,  less  excusable  and  more 
disastrous  degree,  with  "  He  Who  Gets  Slapped,"  the 
Theatre  Guild's  latest  attempt  to  win  a  Russian  repu- 
tation, produced  January  9,  1922.  The  Guild  has 
grown  up  since  its  days  at  the  Bandbox,  and  it  ought 
to  know  better.  Besides,  there  is  less  left  of  the 
shadowy  and  uncertain  values  of  "  He,"  at  its  best 
only  second-rate  Andreieff,  than  there  was  of  the 
sturdier  "  Life  of  Man,"  when  the  Guild  finishes  its 
process  of  turning  an  ironic  and  half -realistic,  half- 
symbolic  sketch  of  the  bare  and  tawdry  life  beneath  the 
gilt  of  the  circus  into  a  sentimental  and  melodramatic 
romance  of  the  gilt  which  Andreieff  expressly  scorns. 
After  all,  it  is  only  in  "  Savva,"  produced  by  the 
Beechwood  Players  in  the  Vanderlip  Theatre  at  Scar- 
borough, New  York,  and  brought  into  the  metropolis 
for  a  single  performance,  June  25,  1922,  that  the  full, 
ringing  challenge  of  Andreieff  has  been  heard  un- 
disguised and  unfettered  in  our  theatre. 

Until  Andreieff' s  "  Savva  "  and  "  Anathema  "  are 
produced  in  our  professional  theatre  as  carefully  and 
as  brilliantly,  at  least,  as  was  Tolstoy's  "  Redemp- 
tion," until  we  are  enabled  to  know  in  English  in  like 
thorough  manner,  Gogol's  "  Revizor,"  Gorky's  "  The 
Lower  Depths  "  and  "  Smug  Citizens,"  and  Tchehoff's 
"  The  Sea  Gull,"  "  Uncle  Vanya,"  "  The  Three  Sis- 
ters "  and  "  The  Cherry  Orchard,"  we  can  not  say  that 

303 


The  Russian  Theatre 


we  have  more  than  a  hailing  acquaintance  with  the 
modern  Russian  drama  and  the  theatre  that  houses  it. 

Nevertheless,  as  the  foregoing  record  indicates,  we  do 
have  a  hailing  acquaintance  and  apparently  a  cordial 
and  receptive  attitude  which  stands  as  a  bid  for  greater 
intimacy.  That  greater  intimacy,  that  more  perfect 
understanding  and  sympathy  which  should  be,  and  un- 
doubtedly will  be,  the  mutual  goal  of  the  Russian  and 
the  American  theatres,  may  take  one  of  two  forms  and 
in  the  end  will  probably  assume  both.  One  is  the  ex- 
tension of  our  contact  with  the  masterpieces  of  the 
Russian  drama  in  translation  into  our  own  tongue. 
The  other  is  the  broadening  of  our  direct  contact  with 
the  outstanding  forces,  institutions  and  personalities  of 
the  Russian  theatre  itself.  Conceivably,  the  one  form 
of  contact  could  exist  without  the  other,  but  in  the 
natural  course  of  events  they  are  both  likely  to  de- 
velop side  by  side  and  serve  as  stimulus,  one  to  the 
other.  Consequently,  we  may  expect  the  widening 
stream  of  Russian  drama  in  English  to  whet  the  ap- 
petite for  richer  and  more  frequent  first  hand  relation- 
ships, just  as  the  influx  of  players,  directors  and  en- 
tire companies  from  the  stages  of  Moscow  and  Petro- 
grad  will  expand  the  potential  field  of  the  translated 
play. 

An  examination  of  the  record  of  the  Russian 
theatre  in  America  in  person,  in  connection  with  the 
foregoing  record  of  its  activities  among  us  by  proxy, 
will  bear  out  fully  this  supposition.  Weak  and  hesi- 
tant in  their  early  courses,  the  two  currents  have  fed  one 

304 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


another  and  have  grown  side  by  side.  The  coming  of 
the  Diagileff  Russian  Ballet  in  1916  is  almost  con- 
temporaneous with  the  development  of  the  new  curios- 
ity in  the  translated  Russian  drama.  The  latest  wave 
in  the  Russian  invasion,  comprising  Balieff,  Shaliapin 
and  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  has  its  parallel  in  a 
Russianized  Broadway,  with  producers  combing  the 
shelves  for  Russian  plays  sufficiently  universal  in  sub- 
ject and  treatment  to  survive  the  process  of  transla- 
tion or  adaptation. 

I  have  gone  into  this  detail  in  regard  to  Russian 
drama  in  English  on  the  American  stage,  not  because 
it  is  a  vital  factor  in  the  chronicle  of  the  contemporary 
Russian  theatre,  but  because  it  serves  as  background 
and  as  parallel  and  helps  us  to  understand  the  fortunes 
of  the  Russian  stage  in  American  transplantation  — 
a  legitimate  thread  of  our  chronicle  which  has  grown 
from  insignificance  to  a  position  of  unmistakable 
dominance.  Up  until  four  years  ago,  the  Russian  in- 
vasion of  the  American  stage  was  a  casual,  occasional 
and  almost  accidental  affair.  Today,  it  is  the  ex- 
pression of  a  dream  universally  cherished  in  the  Rus- 
sian capitals,  a  dream  which  practical  circumstances 
alone  prevent  nine  artists  out  of  ten  from  realizing. 
It  is  important,  therefore,  to  trace  this  movement  from 
its  sources  down  to  the  present  time,  and,  unlike  its 
parallel  current  which  could  be  considered  in  the  large, 
to  trace  it  with  chronological  accuracy. 

The  vanguard  of  the  Russian  dramatic  invasion  in 
person  rather  than  by  proxy  arrived  in  1905.  It  con- 

305 


The  Russian  Theatre 


sisted  of  a  small  company  headed  by  the  itinerant 
actor-manager,  Pavel  Orlienieff,  and  it  included  as 
its  most  talented  member,  aside  from  Orlienieff,  his 
pupil  and  protege,  Alia  Nazimova.  The  newspapers 
and  periodicals  which  deigned  to  notice  these  curious 
vagabonds,  who  had  the  courage  or  foolhardiness  to 
set  before  us  unpopular  plays  in  the  most  difficult  of 
foreign  tongues,  had  a  tortuous  time  with  their  names, 
compromising  on  Orlenoff  for  that  of  the  manager 
and  experimenting  with  Nazimoff  and  Nesimoff  be- 
fore settling  accurately  on  Nazimova  for  that  of  the 
pupil.  The  visitors  had  an  even  more  tortuous  time 
of  it,  for,  although  they  won  instant  critical  attention 
and  praise  for  their  interpretation  of  Ibsen  and  their 
Russian  repertory  at  the  Criterion  Theatre,  New  York, 
they  soon  got  into  booking  and  financial  difficulties. 

Orlienieff  returned  to  Russia,  disheartened.  But  his 
pupil  remained,  under  persuasion,  to  learn  English  and 
appear  on  Broadway.  Surprising  even  her  most  ar- 
dent admirers,  Nazimova  mastered  our  strange  tongue 
in  the  space  of  six  months  and  appeared  under  the  man- 
agement of  Henry  Miller  at  the  Princess  Theatre  in 
November,  1906,  in  "  Hedda  Gabler,"  following  it 
with  other  Ibsen  items  from  her  Russian  repertory 
and  beginning  the  career  which  has  kept  her  on  our 
stage  ever  since. 

Orlienieff  and  his  band  had  probably  been  pushed 
out  of  Russia  by  the  difficult  conditions  of  living 
which  followed  the  1905  Revolution  —  the  same  force 
which  sent  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre  to  Germany,  Aus- 

306 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


tria  and  Poland  on  the  only  foreign  tour  this  stay- 
at-home  company  has  ever  made  prior  to  its  coming 
to  America. 

The  next  dramatic  ambassador  to  come  in  person 
was  an  admitted  fugitive  from  that  Revolution  and  the 
black  reaction  which  trailed  it.  He  was  Maxim 
Gorky,  already  famed  internationally  as  novelist  and 
playwright.  His  "  Smug  Citizens  "  and  "  The  Lower 
Depths  "  had  been  produced  by  the  Moscow  Art  Thea- 
tre during  the  season  of  1902-1903.  His  "  Children 
of  the  Sun  "  had  just  reached  the  same  stage  in  the 
fall  of  1905.  "The  Lower  Depths,"  especially,  had 
achieved  world  fame  through  its  production  by  Max 
Reinhardt  in  Berlin  in  1905,  under  title  of 
"  Nachtasyl "  or  "  Night  Lodging."  To  America, 
however,  he  brought  with  him  Mme.  Andreievna,  not 
yet  his  wife,  and  his  fame  was  as  nothing  to  the 
hotel  where  he  attempted  to  register.  Rudely  ejected 
on  the  street  —  fame,  bag  and  baggage  —  he  finally 
found  a  lodging  place,  but  the  tone  of  the  publicity  he 
had  received  was  not  conducive  to  artistic  creation, 
and  he  soon  departed  for  Europe  and  the  hospitality 
of  Capri. 

For  several  years,  no  other  Russian  artist  of  the 
theatre  dared  to  encounter  rebuff  in  America.  Then, 
in  1908,  two  more  of  them  came,  both  of  whom  re- 
ceived the  traditionally  cold  reception.  Of  the  two, 
the  great  Russian  basso,  Fyodor  Shaliapin,  was  the 
most  inexplicable  failure.  An  alien  tongue  is  no  bar- 
rier to  grand  opera.  For  years  he  had  been  the  hero 

307 


The  Russian  Theatre 


of  the  lyric  stages  of  St.  Petersburg  and  Italy,  al- 
though his  stupendous  western  European  triumphs  in 
Paris  and  London  were  still  to  come.  In  1908,  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  New  York  engaged  him 
briefly  —  and  disastrously.  Those  were  stricter  and 
more  provincial  days.  His  Don  Basilio  in  "  The  Bar- 
ber of  Seville  "  was  unconventional.  And  therefore 
anathema.  Before  he  had  an  opportunity  to  sing  a 
single  note  of  his  Russian  repertory,  he  was  laughed 
Off  the  stage  and  began  an  absence  of  thirteen  years 
which  lasted  until  November,  1921. 

Equally  disastrous  was  the  visit  of  the  eminent 
Russo-Polish  actress,  Vera  Kommissarzhevskaya,  in 
her  time  the  reigning  favorite  of  the  stages  of  St. 
Petersburg  and  Moscow.  Her  failure  was  more  easily 
explicable  than  that  of  Shaliapin.  for  ou-r  dramatic 
stage  with  its  still  provincial  horizon  suspected  a  for- 
eign language,  no  matter  how  brilliantly  it  was  used, 
unless  its  bearer  had  the  reputation  of  a  Bernhardt 
or  a  Duse.  Mme.  Kommissarzhevskaya  came  un- 
heralded, unexplained,  unknown  except  to  her  country- 
men on  the  East  Side. 

Arriving  in  New  York  in  1908,  she  opened  her  sea- 
son at  Daly's  Theatre,  presenting  an  international  rep- 
ertory in  Russian,  including  Ibsen's  "  A  Doll's 
House,"  Gorky's  "  Children  of  the  Sun,"  Ostrovsky's 
"The  Girl  Without  a  Dowry,"  Sudermann's  "The 
Fires  of  St.  John  "  and  "  The  Battle  of  the  Butter- 
flies "  and  Moliere's  "  Le  Misanthrope."  Critically  ac- 
claimed but  publicly  neglected,  she  soon  transferred  her 

308 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


repertory  to  the  old  Thalia  Theatre  in  the  Bowery. 
She  lingered  there  awhile,  playing  to  her  own  people, 
but  finally  gave  up  and  returned  to  Russia.  As  I 
have  already  indicated  in  the  introduction  to  Chapter 
XII,  she  mistook  American  heedlessness  for  a  deliber- 
ate desire  to  slight  her.  Her  feelings  were  deeply 
wounded,  and  her  catastrophe  here  undoubtedly  hast- 
ened her  decline  and  death  in  1910. 

Two  years  passed  before  the  next  wave  of  the  Rus- 
sian invasion  broke  on  our  shores,  and  on  it  there 
rode  into  immediate  favor  Anna  Pavlova  and  Mihail 
Mordkin.  The  tide  had  turned  and  these  two  magi- 
cians of  the  art  of  the  dance  had  performed  the  miracle. 
Through  them  and  a  small  ensemble,  America  had  its 
first  taste  of  the  exotic  loveliness  and  imaginative  viril- 
ity of  the  Russian  Ballet.  Invited  to  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House,  at  the  suggestion  of  Otto  H.  Kahn  in 
the  early  months  of  1910,  after  their  gala  engagements 
in  Western  Europe,  they  followed  their  triumph  in 
New  York  with  a  whirlwind  tour  of  the  country.  At 
last,  though,  jealousy  crept  in  and  parted  the  two  fore- 
most dancers  of  their  generation,  who,  in  the  opinion 
of  many,  should  still  be  working  together  instead  of 
wasting  their  great  gifts  on  inferior  partners. 

Up  to  this  time,  however,  the  flaming  colors  of  the 
Ballet  Russe  and  their  accompanying  vivid  choreo- 
graphic ensemble  were  hidden  secrets  to  us.  Pavlova 
and  Mordkin  had  brought  drab  backgrounds  and  scant 
support.  It  remained  for  Morris  Gest  to  import  in 
1911  the  vanguard  of  the  real  Russian  Ballet  —  the 

309 


The  Russian  Theatre 


brilliant  settings  and  costumes  of  Leon  Bakst  and  a 
company  of  dancers,  including  Lydia  Lopokova,  Mile. 
Baldina,  Fyodor  and  Alexei  Kosloff,  Alexei  Bulgakoff, 
Alexander  Volinin,  Ivan  Tarasoff  and  Nikolai  Zvereff, 
all  grouped  around  Gertrude  Hoffman. 

This  "  Saison  Russe  "  was  Gest's  first  venture  in  in- 
troducing the  art  of  his  native  country  to  the  public  of 
the  land  of  his  adoption.  A  runaway  from  his  home 
in  Vilna  at  the  age  of  nine,  he  had  landed  in  Boston 
in  1893,  and  had  fought  his  way  up  through  newsboy 
gangs  and  theatre  box  offices  to  the  threshold  of  a 
career  as  a  producing  manager.  His  experience  with 
the  Russian  Ballet  was  disastrous  financially,  and  for 
the  better  part  of  a  decade  he  laid  aside  his  dreams 
of  becoming  dramatic  ambassador  extraordinary  from 
the  Russian  stage  to  the  American,  and  devoted  his 
efforts  to  building  up  a  reputation  for  making  costly 
spectacular  productions  of  his  own.  The  record  of 
this  early  venture  remained  untouched,  however,  for 
five  years  until  the  Diagileff  Russian  Ballet  arrived. 

The  years  just  prior  to  and  succeeding  the  outbreak 
of  the  war  saw  a  gap  in  the  Russian  invasion,  which 
was  closed  only  with  the  advent  of  the  luxurious,  pop- 
ulous and  prohibitively  costly  Diagileff  Ballet  early  in 
1916.  Hardly  any  succeeding  year  has  failed  to  add 
its  quota  to  the  ranks  of  immigrant  Russian  artists  of 
the  theatre,  many  of  whom  have  settled  down  to  live 
and  work  with  us. 

The  Diagileff  Ballet,  born,  as  I  have  told  in  Chap- 
ter VII,  of  the  free  spirits  of  Russian  choreographic, 

310 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


scenic  and  musical  art  in  self-imposed  exile  in  Western 
Europe,  had  been  the  sensation  of  Paris  and  London 
for  several  seasons.  In  the  natural  course  of  inter- 
national artistic  exchange,  it  would  undoubtedly  have 
come  sooner  or  later  to  American  shores.  The  pres- 
sure of  the  war  on  the  French  and  British  capitals 
added  to  the  ambitious  and  perspicacious  generosity 
of  Otto  H.  Kahn,  as  the  man  in  the  shadow  of  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  finances  and  the  faithful  Maecenas 
of  Russian  art  in  America,  undoubtedly  hastened  an 
inevitable  event. 

Heralded  in  newspaper  and  periodical  like  no 
foreign  dramatic  visitor  theretofore,  the  Diagileff 
Ballet  opened  its  first  American  season  at  the  Century 
Theatre  under  Metropolitan  Opera  auspices,  late  in 
January,  1916.  Adolph  Bolm,  Leonid  Miassin  and 
Lydia  Lopokova  headed  an  enormous  company  of 
dancers  and  mimes.  The  repertory  included  "  Pe- 
trushka,"  the  peak  of  the  Ballet's  genius;  "The  Fire 
Bird";  "Tamar";  "The  Afternoon  of  a  Faun"; 
"  Sheherazade"  ;  "  Prince  Igor  " ;  "  Cleopatra  " ; 
"  Soleil  de  Nuit " ;  "  Carnaval"  and  a  number  of 
shorter  pieces.  In  addition  to  the  canvases  of  Bakst, 
the  settings  disclosed  work  by  Alexander  Benois  and 
Alexander  Golovin.  After  a  month  at  the  Century, 
an  extensive  and  grandiose  tour  carried  the  ballet  west- 
ward and  then  back  to  the  Metropolitan  for  an  addi- 
tional engagement  in  April.  Efforts  to  obtain  the  re- 
lease of  Nizhinsky  from  an  Austrian  prison  camp  were 
successful  by  the  opening  of  the  next  season,  and  with 

3" 


The  Russian  Theatre 


this  eerie  genius  of  the  dance  at  its  head,  the  com- 
pany appeared  again  in  New  York  and  again  toured 
the  country,  adding  to  its  repertory  Strauss's  "  Til 
Eulenspiegel,"  with  a  gorgeously  mad  setting  from  the 
brush  of  the  foremost  American  designer  for  the  thea- 
tre, Robert  Edmond  Jones. 

With  all  its  unprecedented  reclame  and  an  eager 
public  interest  wherever  it  went,  the  Diagileff  Ballet 
rolled  up  a  colossal  deficit  on  its  two  seasons  in  this 
country,  costing  Otto  Kahn's  generous  purse  a  sum 
upwards  of  half  a  million  dollars.  To  explain  this 
material  failure  in  the  face  of  artistic  triumph,  several 
reasons  may  be  cited.  In  the  first  place,  there  was  dubi- 
ous wisdom  in  announcing  Tamara  Karsavina,  who 
never  came,  and  Nizhinsky,  who  joined  the  company 
only  with  its  second  season.  The  plan  of  operation, 
too,  was  conceived  on  an  unnecessarily  and  disas- 
trously extravagant  scale.  Crowded  houses  every 
night  would  have  failed  to  meet  the  weekly  budget.  It 
is  possible,  in  the  third  place,  that  the  Diagileff  Ballet 
came  to  us  prematurely,  before  our  esthetic  horizon 
was  sufficiently  expanded  by  contact  with  a  world-wide 
theatre  renascent  and  the  phenomenal  development  of 
our  own  stage  arts  in  recent  seasons.  Still,  some- 
one probably  would  have  had  to  pay  the  price  of  the 
pioneer  and  the  pathfinder.  As  value  received  for  the 
loss  they  sustained,  the  Diagileff  Ballet  and  its  Ameri- 
can sponsor  have  the  satisfaction  of  realizing  that  their 
effcjrts  have  served  as  spur  and  guarantee,  not  only  to 
the  Russians  who  have  traveled  with  ease  the  path  they 

312 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


broke,  but  also  to  numerous  native  experimenters,  be- 
sides leaving  Adolph  Bolm  behind  as  permanent  resid- 
uum to  stage  Rimsky-KorsakofFs  "  Coq  d'Or "  for 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  from  a  score  obtained 
by  Morris  Gest,  to  put  on  and  perform  in  "  The  Birth- 
day of  the  Infanta  "  for  the  Chicago  Opera,  to  found 
his  own  Ballet  Intime  and  latterly  to  become  director 
of  the  ballet  for  the  Chicago  Opera. 

The  year  1916  also  brought  two  Russian  dramatic 
talents  which  by  strange  mischance  have  thus  far 
missed  positive  registry  on  their  own  account,  or  ac- 
climatization to  our  peculiar  conditions,  although  they 
remain  with  us  in  hopeful  pursuit  of  their  ambitions. 
One  is  Ossip  Dymow,  playwright,  whose  "  Nju," 
brought  from  Russia,  failed  decisively  and  whose 
"  Bronx  Express,"  written  after  contact  with  our  life, 
had  only  a  short  run  on  Broadway  after  a  fairly  suc- 
cessful production  at  the  Jewish  Art  Theatre.  The 
other  is  Vadim  Uraneff,  pupil  of  Meyerhold  and  con- 
vert to  that  regisseur's  theory  of  the  theatre  theatrical. 
Emerging  publicly  only  at  long  intervals,  as  in  the  pro- 
logue to  Andreieff's  "  Anathema  "  at  a  special  per- 
formance at  the  Apollo  Theatre,  New  York,  in  Febru- 
ary, 1921,  Uraneff  has  nursed  nearer  and  nearer  to 
realization  his  dream  of  an  American  commedia  dell' 
arte  to  be  called  "  The  Theatre  "  and  concerned  with 
producing  "frankly  theatric  and  non-representational 
plays,"  such  as  "The  Little  Show  Booth"  (" Bala- 
gantchik")  and  "The  Star"  (" Nyeznakomka"  or 
"  The  Unknown  Woman"}  by  Alexander  Blok. 

3*3 


The  Russian  Theatre 


Heretofore,  no  Russian  scenic  designer  of  the  first 
rank  had  sought  America  in  person  and  equipped  with 
a  full  display  of  his  canvases.  In  flight  from  the  dis- 
ruptive forces  of  revolution,  Boris  Anisfeld,  fortified 
by  stage  association  with  Meyerhold,  corrected  this 
lapse  by  bringing  himself  and  a  representative  array 
of  his  work  in  1918.  Numerous  exhibitions  of  his 
colorful  studies  followed  in  the  next  few  seasons,  and 
he  settled  down  to  live  and  work  among  us.  His  most 
important  theatrical  commissions  have  been :  "  The 
Love  of  Three  Oranges  "  for  the  Chicago  Opera  Com- 
pany and  "  La  Reine  Fiamette,"  Bo'ito's  "  Mefistofele," 
and  "  Snyegurotchka "  for  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House. 

Once  more  in  the  ensuing  season,  1919,  Morris  Gest 
stepped  forward  to  serve  as  living  link  between  the 
stages  of  his  native  and  adopted  countries  by  induc- 
ing Michel  Fokine,  first  and  greatest  of  the  directors 
of  the  modern  Russian  Ballet  and  the  genius  underly- 
ing DiagilefFs  early  fame,  to  come  to  America  to  de- 
vise and  rehearse  the  ballet  in  Gest's  spectacular  pro- 
duction of  "  Aphrodite."  Fokine  remained  to  do  the 
ballet  in  "Mecca,"  too,  for  Gest,  and  like  many  of  his 
compatriot  artists,  he  has  become  an  American  fix- 
ture. 

Two  divergent  talents  were  the  quota  of  1920  — 
one  yielding  to  the  same  persuasions  that  brought 
Anisfeld  from  Petrograd  two  years  earlier  and  the 
other  rising  to  notice  from  a  long  novitiate  in  the  by- 
ways of  our  own  Yiddish  theatres.  Professor 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


Nicolas  Roerich,  foremost  living  Russian  painter  and 
'supreme  interpreter  of  the  mysticism  of  the  Great 
White  North  and  the  legends  of  old  Muscovy,  came 
by  way  of  a  year  in  London,  and  like  Anisfeld,  Bolm 
and  Fokine,  he,  too,  has  made  himself  thoroughly  one 
of  us.  His  active  entry  into  our  theatre  has  pro- 
gressed slowly  in  comparison  with  his  extended  prac- 
tice in  that  field  at  home  and  in  western  Europe. 
Among  his  most  important  commissions  in  Moscow, 
Petrograd,  Paris  and  London  were :  "  The  Three 
Wise  Men  "  at  Yevreynoff's  Starinny  or  Old  Theatre 
in  Petrograd  in  1907;  "  Snyegurotchka"  for  the 
Opera  Comique  in  Paris  in  1908 ;  "  Prince  Igor,"  "  The 
Maid  of  Pskoff  "  and  "  Sacre  du  Printemps  "  for  Dia- 
gileff  between  1909  and  1913;  "Peter  Gynt "  for  the 
Moscow  Art  Theatre  in  1911-1912;  "Tristan  and 
Isolde"  for  the  Theatre  Zimina  in  Moscow  in  1912; 
"  The  Princess  Maleine  "  for  the  Svobodny  or  Free 
Theatre  in  Moscow  in  1913-1914  and  several  operas 
for  Sir  Thomas  Beecham  in  London  after  the  war,  un- 
produced  because  of  that  impresario's  bankruptcy. 
Thus  far,  his  only  executed  commission  in  this  country 
has  been  "  Snyegurotchka "  for  the  Chicago  Opera 
Company,  a  production  which  still  awaits  public  dis- 
closure to  stand  as  rival  for  Anisf eld's  settings  for  the 
same  opera  at  the  Metropolitan. 

Commanding  attention  in  the  spring  of  the  same 
year  at  the  Jewish  Art  Theatre,  after  a  six-year  strug- 
gle upward  through  the  Yiddish  stages  of  the  Bowery 
and  Second  Avenue,  Jacob  Ben-Ami  passed  adventur- 

315 


The  Russian  Theatre 


ously  to  the  English  speaking  stage  that  autumn  under 
the  direction  of  Arthur  Hopkins.  Product  of  the 
provincial  theatres  of  Minsk  and  Odessa,  Ben- Ami 
proved  at  the  old  Garden  Theatre  that  he  possessed 
the  fire,  the  passion,  the  imagination  of  the  modern 
Russian  stage,  the  ability  to  sink  personality  in  char- 
acterization, and  yet  to  retain  the  driving  power  and 
the  contagious  charm  of  personality.  His  first  under- 
taking in  the  new  tongue  was  a  play  from  the  Danish 
which  he  had  brought  in  manuscript  and  played  in 
Yiddish,  Sven  Lange's  "  Samson  and  Delilah."  In  it 
he  convinced  all  the  irreconcilables  that  he  had  a  con- 
tribution to  make  to  our  growing  stage,  a  contribution 
unmistakably  Russian  rather  than  Jewish.  A  season's 
comparative  hiatus  caused  by  the  failure  in  English  of 
"  The  Idle  Inn,"  one  of  his  Yiddish  pieces  de  resistance 
by  Peretz  Hirshbein,  a  playwright  immigrant  from 
Russia  known  chiefly  in  Yiddish  circles,  has  further 
chastened  an  artist  whose  youthful  vitality  and  imag- 
ination will  carry  him  far. 

The  first  decisive  intimation  that  the  tide,  which  had 
begun  to  turn  with  the  coming  of  Diagileff  but  not 
promptly  enough  to  save  the  ballet  from  disaster,  was 
now  running  strongly  in  favor  of  the  Russian  theatre 
in  America,  came  in  November,  1921,  with  the  return 
of  Fyodor  Ivanovitch  Shaliapin.  The  great  operatic 
basso,  heroic  in  stature,  in  creative  imagination  and 
in  his  sway  over  the  affections  of  the  Russian  public, 
had  been  stung  by  our  cavalier  rejection  of  his  art  in 

316 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


1908.  Thirteen  years  had  passed.  He  had  become 
the  furore  of  Paris  and  London  by  1914,  and  the  vir- 
tual prisoner  of  his  native  stages  after  the  outbreak  of 
war  and  through  the  Revolution  which  developed  from 
it. 

Frequent  rumors  of  calamity  followed  by  frequent 
rumors  of  escape,  were  finally  set  at  rest  by  his  arrival 
in  New  York  in  November,  1921,  a  little  greyer,  but 
just  as  upstanding  physically  and  artistically  as  he  had 
been  in  that  ominously  quiet  June  of  1914,  when 
phlegmatic  Londoners  stood  all  night  in  queue  to  buy 
seats  for  Covent  Garden  as  often  as  he  was  an- 
nounced in  "  Boris  Godunoff,"  "  Prince  Igor,"  or 
"Hovantchina"  Restored  to  our  public  by  way  of 
the  concert  stage,  he  found  at  once  that  something 
had  happened  in  the  interval  to  broaden  our  esthetic 
horizon.  In  repayment  for  the  storm  of  his  welcome 
he  agreed  to  sing  "  Boris  "  twice  at  the  Metropolitan. 
At  de  luxe  prices,  the  huge  house  was  sold  out  days  in 
advance  for  both  engagements.  One  by  one  was 
added  until  the  total  reached  seven  —  all  in  the  same 
opera  and  all  requiring  the  police  reserves  to  handle  the 
crowds  that  tried  to  force  their  way  in.  One  thing 
was  assured.  And  that  was  that  neither  thirteen  years 
nor  thirteen  months  would  pass  before  he  should  be 
heard  again  and  in  a  more  extended  repertory. 

And  another  thing  was  made  a  little  more  certain. 
At  least,  I  suspect  that  the  inseparable  intimacy  which 
grew  up  between  the  great  basso  and  Russia's  dra- 

317 


The  Russian  Theatre 


matic  ambassador  to  our  stage,  was  one  of  the  stimu- 
lants that  induced  Morris  Gest  to  decide  to  bring 
Nikita  Balieff  and  his  Chauve-Souris  to  America. 
Gest,  it  is  true,  had  had  pourparlers  with  Balieff  in 
Paris  in  June  1921.  As  Alexander  Woollcott  ana- 
lyzed the  case  in  the  New  'York  Times:  "Morris 
Gest  saw  the  Chawve-Souris  a  dozen  times  in  Paris, 
and  then,  having  been  called  back  to  this  workaday 
country  on  business,  invited  the  whole  troupe  to  fol- 
low him,  probably  for  no  shrewder  reason  than  that  he 
could  not  face  the  intolerable  prospect  of  not  seeing  it 
fifty  times  more."  Two  hundred  and  fifty  times 
more,  three  hundred,  five  hundred  —  as  the  case  turns 
out. 

No  contracts,  however,  had  been  signed  in  Paris. 
Other  managers  took  turns  presumptuously  announc- 
ing Balieff  and  his  band  from  The  Bat  of  Moscow. 
Finally,  with  his  Russian  blood,  imagination  and  am- 
bition stirred  by  association  with  Shaliapin,  Gest  re- 
sorted to  the  cable,  resumed  negotiations  and  concluded 
contracts  which  brought  Balieff  and  his  entire  compact 
staff  and  company  to  New  York  late  in  January,  1922. 

Balieff  had  had  a  checkered  career  from  the  time  I 
had  bade  him  farewell  in  his  cozy  cellar  in  Moscow  in 
March,  1918.  For  some  time  he  had  continued  his 
gay  and  colorful  programs  and  his  witty  and  fearless 
verbal  heckling  of  those  in  political  power  and  out. 
For  the  latter  indulgence,  non-partisan  as  it  was,  the 
Soviet  heckled  him  in  return  and  with  interest  added. 
He  gave  up  at  last,  traveled  south,  made  his  way  out 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


by  stages  through  Constantinople  and  reached  Paris 
without  friends,  funds  or  future. 

Friends  he  soon  found  and  others  joined  him  from 
the  forty-four  corners  of  Europe.  Fellow  exiles  in 
the  French  capital,  he  discovered,  were  Sergei  Sudey- 
kin  and  Nicolas  Remisoff.  Sudeykin,  who  has  ap- 
peared frequently  in  these  pages  as  scenic  designer  for 
Meyerhold  and  the  Kamerny  Theatre,  is  also  one  of 
the  most  virile,  original  and  fecund  of  Russia's 
younger  easel  artists.  He,  too,  had  fled  Moscow  by 
southerly  route,  painting  his  way  through  Stamboul 
to  Paris.  Remisoff,  the  Re-Mi  of  the  Petrograd 
comic  weekly,  Novy  Satirikon,  had  won  a  sturdy  repu- 
tation as  a  caricaturist,  and,  together  with  Sudeykin, 
he  agreed  to  provide  Balieff  with  new  scenic  equip- 
ment. Many  of  his  cartoons  had  already  served  Ba- 
lieff as  stimulus  for  acts  on  the  stage  of  Letutchaya 
Muish.  The  nucleus  of  The  Bat's  original  company 
answered  summons  in  the  persons  of  Mmes.  Deykar- 
hanova  and  Fechner.  Forterre,  on  Paris  leave  from 
the  Kamerny,  was  enlisted  as  composer.  Mme.  Kar- 
abanova,  also  of  the  Kamerny;  Wavitch  and  Dalma- 
toff,  of  Russian  light  operatic  stages;  Kotchetovsky, 
of  the  ballet;  and  numerous  others  were  recruited. 
And  in  December,  1920,  with  some  fear  but  with 
greater  determination,  Balieff  revived  Letutchaya  Mu- 
ish at  the  Theatre  Femina  under  the  French  title  for 
The  Bat,  La  Chauve-Souris.  Five  productions  fol- 
lowed in  succession  from  December  to  August,  before 
the  company  was  taken  for  a  fortnight  to  San  Sebas- 

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tian,  Spain,  and  thence  to  a  British  fall  and  winter 
season  in  the  Pavilion,  Apollo  and  Coliseum  Theatres, 
London,  and  the  Manchester  Hippodrome. 

It  was  in  Paris,  as  I  have  said,  that  Morris  Gest 
got  his  first  taste  of  the  antic  founder  of  the  Chauve- 
Souris.  Under  that  title  he  decided  to  bring  The  Bat 
of  Moscow  to  New  York  to  avoid  titular  confusion 
with  a  certain  melodramatic  best-seller  of  Broadway. 
And  on  the  night  of  February  3,  1922,  at  the  Forty- 
Ninth  Street  Theatre,  just  four  days  after  landing, 
Balieff  roused  a  super-critical  private  audience  to 
cheers.  Public  audiences  immediately  returned  the 
same  verdict;  an  eight  weeks'  engagement,  rather  tim- 
idly announced  for  five,  ran  into  153  performances 
of  the  first  bill  at  the  original  theatre;  and  on  June  5 
these  Russians,  who  had  so  decisively  dispelled  the 
notion  that  their  nation  never  laughed,  moved  to  the 
Century  Roof  (remade  throughout  in  vivid  Russian 
guise),  disclosed  their  second  bill  in  deference  to  the 
restless  and  tireless  Balieff,  though  the  first  could  have 
continued  indefinitely,  and  settled  down  into  an  Amer- 
ican fixture. 

The  clientele  commanded  by  Balieff's  Chauve-Souris 
from  the  start  has  consisted  in  part,  of  course,  of  those 
American  connoisseurs  and  The  Bat's  own  fellow- 
countrymen  who  were  predisposed  in  its  favor.  It 
soon  deployed,  however,  into  the  walks  of  the  general, 
the  casual  and  the  accidental  theatregoer  in  response  to 
a  newspaper  and  magazine  welcome  unprecedented  in 
our  time  and  reaching  from  coast  to  coast.  To  this 

320 


MOKKIS  GEST,  DRAMATIC  AMBASSADOR  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN 

THEATRE   TO    THE   AMERICAN,    AND    HIS    FRIEND,    FYODOR 

IVANOVITCH     SHALIAPIN,     RUSSIA'S     AND     THE     WORLD'S 

GREATEST  OPERA  SINGER 


I 

\         .    \        .   X-       -     •   .    .  J 

Photograph  by  International 

OTTO    H.    K  All  \ 
MAECENAS   OF   THE   RUSSIAN   THEATRE   IN    AMERICA 


The  Russian  Theatre  in  America 


phenomenal  denouement  of  an  apparently  risky  ven- 
ture three  factors  contributed;  the  sound  and  inimit- 
able worth  of  Nikita  Balieff  as  practicing  and  execu- 
tive artist  of  the  theatre;  the  shrewd  technique  which 
Morris  Gest  used  to  introduce  him  to  his  public ;  and  — 
miracle. 

This  element  of  miracle,  most  fascinating  of  the 
forces  at  work  in  the  theatre,  seems  to  have  put  in  its 
appearance  almost  intentionally  at  a  time  when  the 
usual  economic  and  political  impulses  which  reconcile 
nations  had  failed  to  heal  the  estrangement  between 
Russia  and  America,  and  in  lieu  of  these  commoner 
impulses  to  have  volunteered  the  placative  and  univer- 
sal power  of  art.  What  the  American  Relief  Admin- 
istration has  done  in  efficient  first  aid  to  humanize  the 
Russian  conception  of  America,  BaliefFs  Chauve- 
Souris  in  its  modest  way  has  done  to  humanize  our 
conception  of  Russia.  It  was  appropriate,  therefore, 
that  these  two  mutual  interpreters  of  two  great 
peoples  to  one  another  should  combine,  as  they  did 
last  spring,  to  collect  and  send  American  funds  in  the 
form  of  food  drafts  to  the  starving  artists  of  the 
theatres  of  Moscow,  Petrograd  and  Odessa,  and  that 
Morris  Gest  as  dramatic  ambassador  between  the  two 
countries  should  have  been  instrumental  with  Balieff 
in  arranging  this  token  of  brotherhood. 

In  the  trail  of  Balieffs  Chauve-Souris  have  come 
various  Russians  of  varying  talents.  The  Russian 
Grand  Opera  Company,  consisting  of  stranded  artists 
.from  scattered  lyric  stages,  arrived  by.  way  of  the  Qri- 


The  Russian  Theatre 


ent  and  the  Pacific  coast  in  late  spring,  1922.  Fyodor 
Kommissarzhevsky  has  been  summoned  as  stage 
director  by  the  Theatre  Guild.  Mme.  Kuznetsova, 
one  of  a  dozen  palpable  imitators  of  Balieff  now  ex- 
tant in  Europe,  has  brought  to  us  her  Russian  Revue. 
The  influence  of  this  intimate  and  eager  little  play- 
house of  the  bulbous  Balieff,  enlisting  spectators  as 
participants  in  the  proceedings,  has  extended,  too, 
throughout  our  own  lighter  stage.  Hardly  a  revue 
along  Broadway  would  be  just  as  it  is  if  Balieff  had 
not  come  our  way,  and  the  Forty-Niners,  under  the 
direction  of  George  Tyler,  George  S.  Kaufman  and 
Marc  Connelly,  is  a  frankly  admitted  application  of 
the  idea  of  the  Chauve-Souris  to  American  material. 

Chief  outgrowth  of  Balieff's  sojourn  among  us, 
however,  is  the  coming  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre, 
likewise  under  the  direction  of  Morris  Gest.  It  is 
fitting  that  it  should  be  he  who  brings  to  us  for  the 
first  time,  the  world's  first  theatre.  By  birth,  imagina- 
tion and  ambition  he  is  equipped  to  crusade  for  it,  as 
foreign  works  of  great  truth  and  beauty  must  be 
championed  and  heralded  until  we  are  familiar  with 
them.  And  by  his  training  in  our  theatre  he  knows 
the  situation  he  must  meet  to  achieve  these  results. 

It  is  necessary  only  to  turn  back  to  page  196  to 
understand  why  the  Art  Theatre's  visit  to  America  is 
inextricably  interwoven  with  the  success  of  Balieff's 
Chauve-Souris.  Balieff  began  under  Stanislavsky  and 
Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko.  His  first  collaborators  at 
The  Bat  were  fellow-artists  from  that  stage.  When 

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he  severed  his  connection  with  the  Moscow  Art  The- 
atre in  1912  to  devote  all  his  time  to  his  own  enter- 
prise, he  carried  with  him  the  best  wishes  of  his 
former  co-workers. 

As  soon  as  his  position  here  was  assured,  therefore, 
Balieff,  consciously  or  unwittingly,  began  talking  to  his 
American  sponsor  about  this  unique  stage  where  he 
had  learned  his  craft.  Simultaneously,  the  Kremlin 
city  was  hearing  about  the  triumph  of  its  madcap 
clown.  Why  not  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre?  thought 
Gest.  Why  not  America?  thought  the  Art  Theatre. 
Cables  were  tapped  in  both  directions.  Gest  consid- 
ered going  to  Moscow  to  negotiate,  but  Balieff  held 
him.  Instead,  therefore,  Nikolai  Rumiantseff,  busi- 
ness manager  of  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre,  came  to 
New  York,  spent  a  month  and  a  fortune  in  further 
cables  and  finally  returned  with  a  proposition  to  be  rati- 
fied by  the  entire  cooperative  body  of  the  theatre. 
Balieff,  as  trusted  liaison  officer,  had  vouched  for  his 
sponsor  to  the  Art  Theatre  and  for  his  preceptors  to 
Gest.  Shaliapin,  too,  back  in  Moscow,  put  in  a  word 
for  his  friend.  The  terms  were  accepted  at  once  and 
the  company  set  out  in  September,  1922,  to  open  a 
preliminary  European  tour  in  Berlin. 

There  is  no  need  to  repeat  here  the  story  of  the 
Moscow  Art  Theatre,  so  fully  developed  in  Chapters 
II  to  VI.  From  that  chronicle,  it  should  be  fairly 
evident  what  its  coming  to  us  may  mean  to  our  the- 
atre. Apart  from  its  passing  intrinsic  interest,  a  mat- 
ter of  no  mean  moment,  it  should  provide  our  realists 

3*3 


The  Russian  Theatre 


and  would-be  realists  a  needed  lesson  in  what  may  be 
found  beneath  the  wrappings  of  life,  if  we  have  the 
vision  to  see  and  the  mastery  of  our  powers  of  expres- 
sion to  make  others  see.  It  should  provide,  too,  a 
spur  and  a  stimulus  to  our  opponents  of  realism  and 
help  to  clarify  their  vague  and  groping  efforts  to 
point  and  perfect  their  revolutionary  theories,  tech- 
nique and  practice.  That,  perhaps,  is  one  of  the  most 
valuable  functions  which  the  Moscow  Art  Theatre 
has  fulfilled  on  the  modern  Russian  stage. 

It  is  not  likely  that  we  shall  at  once  find  ourselves 
in  possession  of  as  definite  and  clearly  contrasted  a 
body  of  dramatic  theory,  as  that  which  in  the  Russian 
capital  has  been  able  to  ride  all  the  storms  of  revolu- 
tion, but  we  may,  before  we  realize  it,  find  ourselves 
appreciably  on  the  way  toward  that  enviable  goal. 
And  if  we  do,  the  discovery  of  a  third  home  for  the 
Russian  theatre  in  the  new  world  will  not  have  been  in 
vain. 


324 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  RUSSIAN  THEATRE 

A  HIVE  of  industry.  Of  industry?  No,  for  that 
connotes  commerce  —  buying  and  selling.  A  hive  of 
artistic  activity.  Artistic  —  activity.  No  pretentious- 
ness here.  No  preening  before  mirrors.  No  idle 
talk,  movements,  leagues,  lectures.  No  uplift,  no 
censorship.  No  issue  of  morality,  immorality.  Just 
produce,  produce,  produce!  You  have  dreamed? 
What  is  your  dream?  Is  it  true?  Is  it  beautiful? 
Does  it  illumine  the  dim  backwaters  of  life?  Does  it 
pierce  the  fog  that  clouds  the  path  ahead?  Show  us 
you*r  dream.  Now  in  this  way.  Now  in  that.  Which 
means  the  more?  Is  there  still  another  way?  Find 
it!  Thousands  of  men,  women,  children  —  hungry, 
cold,  dressed  in  makeshift  garments  —  go  questing  in 
obedience  to  this  command.  From  the  depths  of  their 
own  souls  the  command  has  come.  And  it  is  not  to  be 
denied ! 

That,  in  terms  at  least  Yevreynoff  would  under- 
stand, is  my  impression  of  the  spirit  underlying  the 
amazing  record  of  the  modern  Russian  theatre.  I 
can  not  forego  the  temptation  to  set  down  in  conclu- 
sion some  of  the  random  aspects  of  that  spirit,  the 
things  that  distinguish  it  from  the  guiding  impulses  of 

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other  contemporary  theatres,  and  particularly  those 
phases  which  hint  at  parallel  forces  in  our  own  theatre 
—  forces  still  latent  with  us  but  stirring. 

This  word  "  spirit  "  and  the  concepts  it  is  called  on 
to  denote  are  often  vague  enough,  in  all  conscience. 
And  precious,  affected.  I  admit  I  may  be  exposing  it 
to  further  abuse,  but  I  take  the  risk.  With  all  its  in- 
definiteness,  it  is  the  only  word  that  fits.  Beneath  the 
diversities  and  contradictions  of  this  theatre,  there  is 
something  which  all  its  paradoxical  elements  possess  in 
common.  What  is  it?  Not  will  —  nor  intellect  — 
alone.  But  a  force  welling  up  from  the  inner  secret 
treasuries  of  man,  bursting  the  bonds  of  inertia,  of 
tradition,  and  by  aid  or  in  contempt  of  will,  of  intellect, 
seeking,  demanding,  achieving  outlet,  expression. 

The  artistic  product  of  any  people  is  dependent  on 
this  imponderable  impulse.  Often  it  is  compounded 
with  will  or  intellect,  dominated  by  one  or  the  other. 
And  then,  although  it  bespeaks  respect,  attention,  it  is 
without  the  glow,  the  warmth,  the  eagerness,  the  en- 
thusiasm, the  excitement,  the  ecstasy  which  marks  the 
theatre  of  Russia.  In  each  of  the  great  ages  of  the 
theatre  in  the  past,  the  impulse  of  the  spirit  was  domi- 
nant, unmixed  and  unconscious  in  the  beginning,  yield- 
ing little  by  little  to  the  rival  conscious  forces  up  to  the 
peak,  and  passing  under  their  control  as  the  peak  was 
surmounted  and  left  behind.  Athens.  Renaissance 
Italy.  Tudor  England.  Moliere's  France.  De  Ve- 
ga's Spain. 

In  the  measure  to  which  this  impulse  is  still  domi- 
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From  Theatre  Arts  Magazine 

SERGEI  SUDEYKIN'S  DESIGN  FOR  "THE  MOSCOW  FIANCES,"  ONE 

OF  THE   FAVORED  NUMBERS   OF  BAUEFF*S   ChaUVC-SoUrii 


The  Spirit  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

nant  in  Russia,  the  stages  of  Moscow  and  Petrograd 
lead  those  of  the  rest  of  the  world  today.  Elsewhere, 
self-consciousness  and  tradition  dull  the  natural  flow 
of  the  artist's  imagination.  On  the  French  stage,  the 
conscious  control  of  will  and  intellect  takes  the  form 
of  imposing  an  artificial  refinement  on  creative  prod- 
ucts. In  the  German  theatres,  an  obsession  with 
mechanism  has  left  scant  room  for  the  free  play  of 
the  imaginative  spirit,  although  there  are  plentiful 
signs  here  of  the  waning  of  this  influence  and  the  re- 
assertion  of  imagination.  Italy,  in  the  third  place,  is 
still  bound  by  its  own  romantic  and  lyric  traditions 
and  by  a  borrowed  realism,  but  here,  too,  there  are 
signs  of  renascence.  England,  for  the  most  part,  con- 
tinues to  rehearse  the  realism  imported  from  Scandi- 
navia and  the  Continent,  while  the  promising  rebirth  of 
a  theatre  with  a  soul  in  Ireland  has  been  smothered 
under  civil  strife.  The  Orient,  in  its  turn,  is  fettered 
yet  to  a  glorious  past  —  a  past  which  it  preserves  far 
more  adequately  than  we  do  our  own.  Japan,  it  is 
true,  is  reaching  forward  with  one  hand,  but  until  now 
only  in  imitation  of  the  dry  bones  of  the  West. 

And  finally,  we  in  America  are  still  in  the  awkward 
age,  unhampered  by  tradition,  unblessed  by  a  cohesive, 
effective  association  of  scattered  but  indubitively  crea- 
tive impulses.  Inarticulate  yet,  but  struggling  toward 
clarity  of  expression  and  final  achievement  —  that  is  the 
confident  hope  of  many  which  Otto  H.  Kahn  has  thus 
put  into  words  in  his  monograph,  "  Some  Observations 
of  Art  in  America  " : 

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"  If,  as  I  trust  and  believe  will  come  to  pass,  we  will 
give  to  art  that  full  scope  and  place  and  honor  to  which 
it  is  entitled,  if  we  make  it  widely  and  easily  accessible 
to  the  people,  if  we  afford  serious  encouragement,  fos- 
tering attention  and  adequate  opportunity  to  genuine 
aspirations  and  talent,  and  due  reward  to  genuine  merit, 
we  shall,  I  am  convinced,  astonish  the  world  and  our- 
selves by  the  greatness  and  intensity  of  the  manifesta- 
tion of  the  American  spirit  in  art." 

A  backward  glance  over  the  supreme  achievements 
of  the  modern  Russian  theatre  as  I  have  tried  to  inter- 
pret them  in  the  foregoing  chapters,  will  make  clear 
what  I  mean  by  the  workings  of  this  intangible  spirit. 
In  the  plays  of  Tchehoff,  Gorky's  "  The  Lower 
Depths  "  and  "  The  Blue  Bird  "  at  the  Moscow  Art 
Theatre,  in  "  Twelfth  Night "  at  the  First  Studio  of 
that  theatre,  in  "  Salome  "  at  the  Kamerny,  in  "  The 
Sorrows  of  the  Spirit "  at  the  Small  State  Theatre  of 
Moscow,  in  Meyerhold's  "  Don  Juan,"  and  even  in  the 
antic  delights  of  Balieff's  Chauve-Souris,  its  presence  is 
unmistakably  evident.  Through  divergent  matter 
and  equally  divergent  and  even  clashing  manner,  this 
thrilling  note  of  eager  and  boundless  creative  energy 
runs.  Effects  and  reactions  are  present  in  each  of  these 
productions  which  could  not  have  been  put  there  by  the 
most  omniscient  and  shrewdly  calculating  intention. 
Born  in  a  moment  of  intuitive  perception,  these  speci- 
mens of  the  art  which  is  the  theatre  are  unclouded  by 
self-consciousness,  and  yet  matured  and  poised  in  the 
majority  of  instances  by  just  sufficient  intellectual 

3*8 


The  Spirit  of  the  Russian  Theatre 

guidance.  I  have  watched  rehearsals  of  more  than  one 
of  these  finished  products  and  I  have  seen  everyone  con- 
nected with  them,  from  producer  to  doorkeeper,  throw 
himself  into  the  process  of  creation  with  the  fire  and 
self-abandon  of  a  being  possessed.  The  youth  of  this 
regime  of  the  spirit  and  its  logical  kinship  with  the 
other  great  eras  of  artistic  renaissance  are  facts  attested 
by  an  occasional  flare-up  of  imaginative  vitality  with- 
out any  poise  or  control  at  all,  for  the  world  and  all  like 
one  of  the  distorted  but  eloquent  canvases  of  the 
early  masters. 

Accustomed  as  we  are  to  spontaneous  and  awkward 
outbursts  of  enthusiasm  and  feeling  in  our  own  artistic 
youth  and  acquainted  with  the  sense  of  embarrassment 
when  we  have  found  out  what  we  have  done,  I  believe 
that  we  in  America,  by  increasing  contact  with  this 
theatre  of  Russia,  will  feel  a  responsive  chord  struck 
within  us  and  will  rally  for  guidance  to  these  more 
mature  but  still  fresh  and  unspoiled  preceptors.  I  can 
foresee  that  association  with  this  theatre  will  help  to 
release  our  own  innate  but  diffident  gifts  and  give  us 
the  confidence  we  need  to  overcome  the  mistaken  con- 
viction that  art  in  the  theatre  is  not  for  us  nor  the 
things  of  the  spirit. 

And  why,  after  all,  should  we  be  shy?  We  have  had 
our  Whitman  and  our  Poe,  our  Whistler  and  our  Sar- 
gent, our  St.  Gaudens  and  our  William  James.  Why 
not  our  artists  of  the  theatre,  nourished  by  the  inner 
fires  of  the  spirit  as  were  these  who  have  already  lit 
the  path  of  our  life  by  their  vision? 

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Just  what  forms  that  spirit  will  take  in  our  theatre 
when  it  becomes  articulate,  is  impossible  to  predict. 
Springing  from  hidden  sources,  it  reveals  its  secrets  in 
advance  to  no  man.  It  has  been  different,  individual, 
in  each  previous  renaissance.  Only  one  thing  is  cer- 
tain. And  that  is  that  it  will  come  in  its  own  time. 
For,  once  more  in  the  words  of  Kahn,  "  The  call  of  a 
people  does  not  remain  unanswered." 


THE   END 


330 


INDEX 


ABRAMOVA,  MLLE.,  276. 
Achron,  283. 

Adam,  Adolphe  Charles,  105. 
"Adrienne  Lecouvreur,"  272. 
"Afternoon  of  a  Faun,  The,"  97, 

160,  311. 
"Aida,"  5- 

Aidaroff,  S.  V.,  126. 
"Aiglon,  L',"  293. 
Akimova,  132. 
Alexander  II,  Tsar,  132. 
Alexandroff,  Nikolai  Grigorie- 

vitch,  21,  265. 
Alexandroff,  273. 
Alexeieff,    Constantin    Sergeie- 

vitch.    See  STANISLAVSKY. 
Alexeieva,     Valentina     Sergei- 

evna,  44. 
Altman,  283. 

American    Relief    Administra- 
tion, 263,  321. 
American  Theatre,  2,  195,  198, 

327. 
"Amour  sous  le  Masque,  V" 

183. 

"Anathema,"  26,  302-303,  313. 
Andersen,  Hans  Christian,  282. 
Anderson,  Elizabeth  Julia,  17, 

107-109,  284. 
Andreieff,  Leonid,  5,  n,  24,  26- 

27,  69,  183,  200,  218,  278,  301- 

303,  313. 

Andreievna,  Mme.,  307. 
Anisfeld,     Boris     Izmailovitch, 

219,  314-315. 
"Anna  Karenina,"  299. 
"Annonce  Faite  a  Marie,  L'," 

273. 
Annyenkoff,  Y.  P.,  190. 


Annyensky,  Innocent,  139,  164. 
An-sky,  S.,  283-284. 
"Antigone,"  25. 
"Aphrodite,"  314. 
"Apology     for    Theatricality," 

244. 

Appia,  Adolf,  44,  247. 
Arapoff,  A.  A.,  139. 
Arhangelsky,  Alexei,  198,  264. 
Aristophanes,  181,  183,  224. 
Arkadin,  Ivan,  161-162. 
"Arkazoffs,  The,"  123. 
"Art  of  the  Actor  and  the  The- 
ory   of    Stanislavsky,    The," 

194,  250-254. 
"Art    Thcdtral    Modern,    L'," 

32. 
Artsuibasheff,     Mihail     Petro- 

vitch,  293. 
Artyom,    Alexander    Rodiono- 

vitch,  24,  54. 
Ash,  Sholom,  283. 
"At  the  Monastery,"  26. 
"At  the  Tsar's  Door,"  26,  71, 

218. 

Aubert,  Charles,  233-234. 
"Autumn  Violins,"  27,  71. 
"Awakening  of   Spring,   The," 

218. 

"Aziade,"   112,  114-115. 
"Azure   Carpet,   The,"   5,    139, 

163,  170-173,  199. 

BACCHANALS,  in,   169. 
Bach,  Johann  Sebastian,  246. 
"Bad  Anecdote,  A,"   181,  183, 

189-193- 
Baklanova,  Olga  Vladimirovna, 

24,  91-93,  268. 


331 


Index 


Bakst,  Leon  S.,  II,  97~99,  257, 

310-311. 
"Balagantchik."     See     "LITTLE 

BOOTH,  THE." 
Balashova,  A.  M.,  106-107,  m» 

281,  284. 

Baldina,  Mile.,  310. 
Balieff,  N.  F.,  xi,  5,  7,  196-200, 

202,  272,  318. 
BaliefFs  Chauve-Souris,  xi,  272, 

285,   297,    318-322,   328.    See 

also  BALIEFF,  NIKITA  F.,  and 

Moscow,  Letutchaya  Muish. 
Ballet  Intime,  313. 
Ballet,   Russian,  8,  92,  95-"  9» 

160,   195,   198,  202,  257,  275- 

276,  284,  305,  300-314- 
Ballet  School,  Imperial,  96,  110- 

lil,  276. 

Balmont,  Constantin  D.,  137. 
Balzac,  Honore  de,  183. 
"Barber  of  Seville,  The,"  308. 
Barrymore,  John,  299. 
Barrymores,  The,  126. 
"Bayaderka,"  105. 
"Battle  of  the  Butterflies,  The," 

308. 

"Bear,  The,"  301. 
Beardsley,  Aubrey  Vincent,  226. 
Beaumarchais,  Pierre  Augustin 

Caron  de,  138. 
"Beautiful      Sabine      Women, 

The,"  226,  302. 
Bebutoff,  Vladimir,  280. 
Beecham,  Sir  Thomas,  315. 
"Before  Dawn,"  283. 
Belgrade,  123. 
Ben-Ami,  Jacob,  315-316. 
Benelli,  Sem,  139. 
Benois,     Alexander     Nikolaie- 

vitch,  xi,  92,  311. 
Berger,    Henning,    90. 
Berlin,  Kleines  Theatre,  65. 
Bernhardt,  Sarah,  308. 
Bersenieff,   Ivan   Nikolaievitch, 

265. 


Berthenson,  Alexander,  16. 
Bielinsky,    Vissarion    Grigorie- 

vitch,  131. 

Bilibin,  Ivan  Yakovlevitch,  219. 
"Birthday  of  the  Infanta,  The," 

313. 

"Birthright,"  186. 
"Blind,  The,"  283. 
Blok,  Alexander,  29,  218,  266, 

278,    313. 
"Blue  Bird,  The,"  2,  4-5,  14,  26, 

28,  31-45,  52,  90,  144,  147,  177, 

196,  250,  328. 
"Boarder,  The,"  70. 
"Boheme,  La,"  5,  205. 
"Boite    a    Joujoux,    La."    See 

Box  OF  TOYS,  THE." 
Bolto,  Arrigo,  314. 
Bolm,    Adolph,    115,    311,    313, 

315. 

Bolsheviki,  2,  118,  133,  219. 
Bolshevik       Revolution.       See 

REVOLUTION,  BOLSHEVIK. 
Bolyeslavsky,    Richard    Valen- 

tinovitch,  84,  93. 
Bondy,  Y.  M.,  219. 
Boni  and  Liveright,  xi. 
"Book  about  Yevreynoff,  The," 

221. 

Bookman,  The,  xi. 

Booths,  The,  126. 

"Boris  Godunoff,"  26,  117,  218, 

317. 

Boston,  Toy  Theatre,  301. 
Boston  Evening  Transcript,  xi. 
"Bourgeois  Gentilhomme,  Le," 

194. 

"Box  of  Pandora,  The,"  183. 
"Box  of  Toys,  The,"  140,  144, 

163,   177-179,  274. 
"Brand,"  26,  196. 
Briussoff,  Valery,  273. 
Bromley,  Nadiezhda,  268. 
"Bronx  Express,  The,"  313. 
"Brothers    Karamazoff,    The," 

27,  72. 


332 


Index 


Browne,  Maurice,  4,  169. 
Browning,  Robert,  91. 
Budberg,  Baroness,  225. 
Bulgakoff,  Alexei  D.,  101,  310. 
Burdzhaloff,     Giorgi     Sergeie- 

vitch,  198. 

Burliuk,  David,  203. 
Butkovskaya,   Mme.,  221,  226- 

228. 
Butova,  Nadiezhda  Sergeievna, 

23,  S3. 

Byelyaieff,  Youry  D.,  218. 
Byron,   George  Gordon,  Lord, 

267. 

"CAIN,"  267. 

Calderon  de  la  Barca,  Pedro, 
138. 

"Carmen,"  n. 

"Carnaval,"  311. 

"Carnival  of  Life,  The,"  138. 

"Cenci,  The,"  278. 

"Chains,  The,"  123. 

"Chapeau  de  Faille  d'ltalie, 
Un,"  139. 

Chauve-Souris.  See  BALIEFF'S 
CHAUVE-SOURIS  and  Mos- 
cow, LETUTCHAYA  MUISH. 

"Cherry  Orchard,  The,"  2,  5, 
14,  18,  23,  26,  45-46,  48,  54- 
59,  62-64,  266,  303. 

Chicago,  Chicago  Opera  Com- 
pany, 313-315;  Little  Theatre, 
169. 

"Chief,  The,"  278. 

"Children  of  the  Sun,"  26,  307- 
308. 

Chinese  Theatre,  131. 

"Choice  of  a  Fiancee,  The," 
183. 

"Christmas  Carol,  A,"  181,  183, 
185-186. 

"City  of  the  Plague,  The,"  91. 

Claudel,  Paul,  140,  163,  179,  273. 

"Cleopatra,"  311. 

"Color  Box,  The,"  282. 


"Comedy  of  Alexei,  The,"  5, 
183. 

Commedia  dell'  arte,  149,  163, 
173,  205,  250,  313. 

"Commune  of  Irin,  The,"  123. 

"Concerning  the  Harm  of  To- 
bacco," 90. 

Connolly,  Marc,  322. 

"Coppelia,"   105. 

"Coq  d'Or,"  313. 

Coquelin,  Benoit  Constant,  22. 

"Corsar,"   105. 

Craig,  Edward  Gordon,  2,  22, 
28,  39,  44,  228-229,  247-248, 

255- 
"Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  The," 

89,  215,  269. 
"Crime   and    Punishment,"  68, 

201,  260,  300. 
Crimea,  61-62. 
"Crowning  of  Spring,  The,"  97, 

315. 

Cubism,  153,  158-160,  164. 
"Cursed  Prince,  The,"  183. 
"Cyrano  de  Bergerac,"  138. 

DALCROZE,       JAQUES-.         See 

JAQUES-DALCROZE. 
Dalmatoff,  319. 
Daltonists,  237. 

"Dancing  Spaniard,  The,"  226. 
"Danton,"  277. 
Dargomuizhsky,         Alexander 

Sergeievitch,  213,  219. 
Darwin,  Charles,  247. 
"Days  of  Our  Life,  The,"  n, 

200,  302. 
"Death   of   Ivan  the   Terrible, 

The,"  25,  298. 
"Death  of   Pazuhin,  The,"  27, 

72. 
Debussy,   Claude   Achille,    140, 

144,    160,    163,    177-179,   246, 

274. 

"Deluge,  The,"  90. 
Denikin,  General,  265. 
Denisoff,     Vassily     Ivanovitch, 

219. 


333 


Index 


Deykarhanova,  199,  319. 
Diagileff,   Sergei,   92,  97,   103- 

104,   107,    in,   160,  206,  213, 

257,  305,  310-316. 
Diatchenko,  132. 
"Dibbuk,  The,"  283-284. 
Dickens,  Charles,  6,  69,  89-90, 

181,    183,    185-186. 
"Dinner   with   the   Minister  of 

State,  A,"  222. 
"Distress  of  a  Gentleman,  The," 

229. 

"Dmitry  Donskoi,"  182. 
Dobuzhinsky,  Mstislaff  Valeri- 

anovitch,  71,  219,  229. 
"Doll's  House,  A,"  25,  218,  308. 
"Don  Juan,"  207-215,  217-218, 

328. 

"Don  Quixote,"  105,  no. 
Donanhy,  139,  144. 
Donnay,  Maurice,  n. 
Dostoievsky,    Fyodor    Mihailo- 

vitch,  2,  18,  24,  27,  64,  67-68, 

72-79,  181,  183,  186,  188-193, 

201,  260,  290-300. 
"Drama  of  Life,  The,"  26. 
"Drayman  Henschel,"  25. 
"Dream,"  148. 
Dreiser,  Theodore,  260-261. 
Drews,  The,   126. 
Dublin,    Abbey    Theatre.    See 

IRISH  PLAYERS. 
Duncan,  Isadora,  119,  257,  280- 

281,  291. 
Durasova,       Maria       Alexan- 

drovna,  89,  93. 
Duse,  Eleanora,  308. 
Dymow,  Ossip,  313. 

"Schange,  L'"  140,  163,  179. 

Ecran,  291. 

"Education  of  a  Prince,  The," 

II. 

Efros,  N.,  59-60. 
"Elektra,"    183,   219. 
Eliot.  Samuel   A.,  Jr.,  302. 
"Endless  Story,  The,"  218. 


"Enemy  of  the  People,  An,"  26. 
English   Theatre,   2,    131,    195, 

208-209,  326-327. 
"Enough    Stupidity    in    Every 

Wise  Man,"  27,  223,  267. 
"Entr'acte    under    the    Divan, 

The,"  199. 
"Eric  XIV,"  268. 
Eschenbach,  Wolfram  von,  237. 
Euripides,   n. 
"Everyman,"  183. 
"Exposition  of  Art,  An,"  229. 
Exter,     Alexandra,     139,     143, 

153-154,  159,  164,  273. 

"FAIR  AT  THE  INDICTION  OF  ST. 

DENIS,  THE,"  227. 
"Family   Picture,  A,"   182. 
"Fan,  The,"  138. 
"Fathers  and  Children,"  71. 
"Faust,"  194. 
Fechner,  Mme.,  319. 
Fedotoff,  T.  S.,  139,  282. 
Fedotova,  132. 
Ferdinandoff,    Boris,    149,    162, 

176-177,  273. 
"Festival   in  the  Time  of  the 

Plague,  The,"  90-91. 
"Filte   de   Mme.    Angot,   La," 

267. 

"Fire  Bird,  The,"  97,  213,  311. 
"Fires  of  St  John,  The,"  308. 
Fisher,  237. 
Fiske,    Mrs.    Minnie   Maddern, 

23,  52-53- 
"Florentine  Tragedy,  A,"  126- 

127. 

Fokina,  Vera,  106,  284. 
Fokine,   Michel,   284,  314-315. 
"Fool  Hath  Said  in  His  Heart 

There  Is  No  God,  The,"  300. 
"Fool   on    the    Throne,    The." 

See  "KING  HARLEQUIN." 
"Fools  as  Blind  Idols,"  223. 
Footlights,  16,   184,  243. 
Foreger,  139. 
Forterre,  Henri,  9,  138-140,  144, 


334 


Index 


148-149,    165,    169,    171,    177, 

272-273,  282,  319. 

"Foundation      of      Happiness, 

The,"  224. 
"Fountain     of     Bakhchi-Sarai, 

The,"  199. 

"Fourth  Wall,  The,"  229. 
"Francesca  da  Rimini,"  225. 
French  Theatre,  2,  131,  208-209, 

326-327. 

"Frenzied  Finance,"  127. 
Froman,  Margarita,   in,  115. 
"Fruits       of       Enlightenment, 

The,"  127. 

"Fugitive,  The,"  226. 
Fyodorova  II,  107,  no-ill. 

GAGARIN,  PRINCE,  269. 
Gaidaroff,     Vladimir     Sergeie- 

vitch,  21,  267. 

"Gay  Death,"  225,  228-229,  301. 
Geltser,  Y.  V.,  106,  108,  276. 
German  Theatre,  327. 
Germanova,  Maria  Nikolaievna, 

23,  53,  91792,  265. 

Gest,  Morris  xi,  297,  309-310, 

313-314,  3i8,  320-323. 
Ghiatsintova,   Sophia  Vladimi- 

rovna,  93. 
"Ghosts,"  n,  26. 
"Girl  without  a  Dowry,  The," 

308. 

"Girofle-Girofla,"  222. 
Giutel,  Jules,  112,  154. 
Glazunoff,  Alexander  Constan- 

tinovitch,  98,  169,  219. 
Glinka,    Mihail    Ivanovitch,    8, 

199- 
Gluck,      Christoph      Willibald, 

218-219. 

"God  of  Revenge,  The,"  283. 
Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang  von, 

133,  194,  237. 
Gogol,  Nikolai  Vassilievitch,  6, 

24,  26,  119,  121,  131,  183,  198- 
199,    204,    215-216,    267-268, 
300,  303- 


"Golden  Apple,  The,"  170. 
Goldoni,  Carlo,  25,  138. 
Golitsuin,  Prince  V.  Y.,  224. 
Goloff,  G.  I.,  112. 
Golovin,    Alexander    Yakovle- 

vitch,    10,   206-207,   213,   219, 

3". 
Gontcharova,    Natalia    Sergei- 

evna,  138,  143. 
"Good  Hope,  The,"  See  "Loss 

OF   THE   HOPE,'   THE." 
"Gore    ot    Uma."    See    "SOR- 
ROWS OF  THE  SPIRIT,  THE." 
Gorky,  Maxim,  5-6,  15-16,  22, 

24,  26,  61-62,  64-69,  81,  179, 

198-199,  266-268,  300-301,  303, 

307-308,  328. 
Gortinskaya,  270. 
Goryeff,  132-133- 
Gourmont,  Remy  de,  138. 
"Grandmother,"  224,  228. 
Granovsky,  A.  M.,  283-284. 
Granovsky,    Timofei    Nikolaie- 

vitch,  131. 
Gray,   Fred,  206. 
"Great  Catherine,"  277. 
Greek  Drama,  164,   169,  326. 
"Green    Ring,    The,"    92,    282, 

300. 
"Greenroom  of  the  Soul,  The," 

227,  229. 

Gregory,  Lady  Augusta,  170. 
Gretchaninoff,  282. 
Griboyedoff,  Alexander  Sergei- 

evitch,  5,  24,  26,  71,  119,  121, 

123,  127-131,  270. 
Gribunin,    Vladimir    Fyodoro- 

vitch,  21,  23,  54,  69,  78. 
Groose,  K.,  237. 
Gutzkow,  Karl  Ferdinand,  283. 
Gzovskaya,  O.  V.,  17,  126,  277. 

Haltoora,  294. 

Halyoutina,  Sophia  Vassilicvna, 

69. 

"Hamlet,"  22,  27-28,  236. 
Hammerstein,  Oscar,  113. 


335 


Index 


Hampden,  Burford,  44. 

Hamsun,  Kjiud,  25-27,  71,  218, 
267. 

"Handsome  Despot,  The,"  224. 

"Hannele,"  183. 

Hapgood,  Norman,  vii. 

"Happiness  of  Greta,  The,"  25. 

Harned,  Virginia,  299. 

Hauptmann,  Gerhart,  25-26,  61- 
62,  183. 

"He  Who  Gets  Slapped,"  303. 

Hebel,  Johann  Peter,  237. 

"Hedda  Gabler,"  25,  61,  306. 

Heijermans,  Herman,  90. 

Hellerau,  150. 

Helsingfors,  125. 

Herberg,  Tor,  139. 

Hippius,  Zinaida,  282,  300. 

"Hippolyte,"  n. 

Hirshbein,  Peretz,  316. 

"History  of  Corporal  Punish- 
ment in  Russia,"  226. 

Hmara,  Grigory  Mihailo- 
vitch,  89. 

Hmelnitsky,  270. 

Hoffman,  183. 

Hoffman,  Gertrude,  101,  310. 

Hofmannsthal,  Hugo  von,  183, 
218-219. 

Holodnaya,  Vera,  203. 

Hopkins,  Arthur,  299-300,  316. 

"Hostages   of   Life,"   218-219. 

"Hostess  of  the  Inn,  The,"  25. 

"House  of  the  Dead,  The,"  193. 

"Hovant china,"  317. 

"How  Ivan  Ivanovitch  Ex- 
changed Words  with  Ivan 
Nikiforovitch,"  6,  109. 

Hugo,  Victor  Marie,   124,   133. 

"Hump-backed  Hobbyhorse, 
The,"  105-107,  no,  269. 

"Husband  of  a  Celebrity,  The," 
123. 


IBSEN,  HENRIK,  n,  25-27,  61- 

62,  i2i,  147,  201,  218,  306,  308. 

"Idle  Inn,  The,"  316. 


Ignatoff,   Sergei,   256. 

"In  Dream  Land,"  26. 

"In  the  City,"  218. 

"In  the  Claws  of  Life,"  27,  71, 

267. 

"In  the  Winter,"  283. 
Indianapolis,     Little     Theatre, 

302. 

Indianapolis  News,  The,  xi. 
"Inhabited   Earth,   The,"   270. 
"Inspector    General,    The,"   26, 

204,  227,  229,  267,  300,  303. 
Intimate  Theatre,  215-216. 
"Introduction    to    Monodrama, 

An,"  226,  229-230. 
Irish  Players,  59,  63,  186,  256, 

327- 

Irving,  Laurence,  65. 
Italian   Theatre,   208-209,   326- 

327. 

"Ivan  Mironitch,"  26. 
"Ivanoff,"  26. 
Isvestia,  289. 

JAMES,  WILLIAM,  260,  329. 
Japanese  Theatre,  131,  208-209, 

327. 

Jaques-Dalcroze,  150. 
"Jealousy,"  293. 
"John   Gabriel  Borkman,"  25. 
Jones,    Robert    Edmond,    275, 

299,  312. 
Journal  of  Doctor  Dapertutto, 

The,  215-216,  256. 
"Julius  Caesar,"  26,  62. 
"Jungle  Book,  The,"  282. 

KAHN,  OTTO  H.,  309,  311-312, 

327-328,  330. 
Kalidasa,  137. 

Kalmakoff,  N.  K.,  138,  143. 
Kaluzhsky,    Yevgeny    Vassilie- 

vitch,  84,  269. 
Kamyensky,  Vassily,  203,  221- 

222,  258,  280. 

Kandaourova,  107,  iio-m. 
Karabanova,  Mme.,  319. 
Karaly,  V.  A.,  106. 


336 


Index 


Karsavina,  Tamar  P.,  99,   to6, 

108,  284,  312. 
Katchaloff,  Vassily  Ivanovitch, 

6,    21-22,   53,   68,   70,   91-92, 

201,  265. 

Kaufman,  George  S.,  322. 
Kieff,  126. 
"King    Harlequin,"     140,     163, 

173-176,  273. 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  282. 
"Kitchen    of    Laughter,    The," 

229. 
Knipper,  Olga  Leonardovna,  23, 

SO,  52-53,  56-57,  62,  69,  201, 

265. 
Kolin,     Nikolai     Fyodorovitch, 

24,  43,  88-89,  93,  269- 
Kommissarzhevskaya,       Vera, 

180",       193-194,       225,       308, 

322. 
Kommissarzhevsky,   Fyodor,  9, 

28,  113,  180-182,  184-185,  189, 

193-195,   202,   225,   247,   250- 

254,  284. 
Kondratyeff,  61. 
"Konyok-Gorbunok."  See 

"HUMPBACKED     HOBBYHORSE, 

THE." 
Koonen,   Alice  Giorgievna,  28, 

140,     146-149,     155,    160-161, 

173,  272-273. 
Korenieva,    Lydia    Mihailovna, 

267. 
Korovin,    Constantin    Alexeie- 

vitch,  98,    105,    116-117,   219, 

277- 

Korsh,  F.  A.,  122-123. 
Kosloff,  Alexei,  310. 
Kosloff,   Fyodor,  310. 
Kotchetovsky,  A.,  319. 
Krieger,  no. 
Krieger,   V.    V.,    107,    109-110, 

284. 

Kruiloff,  132. 
Kudryavtseff,  N.  P.,  44. 
Kulbin,  N.  I.,  219,  226-227. 
Kuppelhorizont,  185. 


Kuroff,    Nikolai    Nikolaievitch, 

98. 
Kuzmin,    Mihail,    5,    138,    144, 

183. 
Kuznetsoff,  Pavel  Varfolomeie- 

vitch,  138,  143. 
Kuznetsova,  Maria,  322. 

LABICHE,  EUGENE  MARIN,  139. 

"Lady  from  the  Provinces, 
The,"  70. 

"Lady  from  the  Sea,  The," 
25- 

Lange,  Sven,  316. 

Lazarieff,  Ivan  Vassilievitch, 
16-17,  84. 

Lecocq,  Charles,  267. 

Leonidoff,  Leonid  Mironovitch, 
82,  267,  271. 

Lerberghe,  Charles  van,  181, 
183,  189. 

"Life  is  a  Dream,"  138. 

"Life  of  Man,  The,"  26,  218, 
302-303. 

"Light  That  Shines  in  Dark- 
ness, The,"  30. 

"Lightning  Rod,  The,"  123. 

Lilina,  Maria  Petrovna,  23,  53, 
58-59. 

"Little   Booth,   The,"  218,  313. 

Little  Theatres,  82-83,   135. 

"Living  Corpse,  The,"  27,  218, 
299,  303. 

London,  Alhambra,  108 ; 
Apollo,  320;  Coliseum,  108, 
320;  Covent  Garden,  317; 
Kingsway  Theatre,  65;  Pa- 
vilion, 320. 

London  Daily  Mail,  206. 

"Lonely  Lives,"  25,  61. 

Lopokova,  Lydia,  310-311. 

"Loss  of  'The  Hope,'  The,"  90. 

Lotar,  140,  163. 

"Love  of  One's  Neighbor," 
302. 

"Love  of  Three  Oranges,  The," 
314- 


337 


Index 

"Lower  Depths,  The,"  5-6,  15-  Mayakovsky,  Vladimir,  280. 

16,   22,   26,   62,   64-69,   266-  "Mecca,"  314. 

267,  300,  303,  307,  328.  "Mefistofele,"  314. 

Lunatcharsky,  A.  V.,  219,  275,  Meltzer,  Charles  Henry,  300. 

282.  Mendelian  Law,  246. 

Luzhsky,  Vassily  Vassilievitch,  "Merchant    of    Venice,    The," 

22,  53-54,  68,  269.  25,  124-125,  134. 

Lyenin,  M.  F.,  126.  Merezhkovsky,     Dmitry     Ser- 

Lyensky,  61,    132-133.  geievitch,  5,  n,  27,  282,  300. 

Lyentuloff,     Aristid     V.,     139,  "Merry     Death,      The,"      See 

143,  203.  "GAY  DEATH." 

Lyermontoff,     Mihail     Yourie-  "Merry     Wives     of     Windsor 

vitch,  219.  The,"   139,  273. 

Lyeshkovskaya,  Y.  K.,  126,  132.  "Merry-go-round,  The,"  n. 

"Lysistrata,"  181,  183.  Meyerhold,    Vsevolod    Emilye- 

vitch,  3,  10,  28,  141,  202-222, 

MACGOWAN,  KENNETH,  xi.  225,   247,   254-256,   270,   278, 

Maeterlinck,    Maurice,    II,    14,  280-281,    293,    313-314,    3*9. 

25-26,   31-44,    147,   218,   269-  328. 

270,  283.  Miassin,  Leonid,  311. 

"Maid  of  Pskoff,  The,"  315.  "Michael  Kramer,  26,  62. 

Maitoff,      Boris     Alexeievitch,  "Michael   the  Archangel,"  268. 

1 02.  Miedviedieva,  132. 

Make-up,  16.  Miganadzhian,  Avagim  Emma- 

Maksheieff,  132.  nuilovitch,  139,  143,  170. 

"Malade  Imaginaire,  Le"  27.  Miklashevsky,    Constantin    M., 

Mamontoff,  S.  I.,  116.  2O5- 

"Man,"  148.  Milan,  La  Scala,  104. 

Manchester  (England),  Hippo-  Miller,  Henry,  306. 

drome,  320.  Millocker,  Carl,  267. 

Mansfield,     Richard,     22,    260,  "Miniatures,"  26. 

299.  "Miracle  of  St.  Anthony,  The," 

"Manuscript    Concerning    For-  Il>  269-270. 

trait  Painters,  A,"  229.  "Mirror  of  the  Virgin,  The," 

"Mlarriage    of    Figaro,    The,"  X99- 

138.  "Misanthrope,  Le,"  308. 

"Marriage    of    Zobeide,    The,"  "Miserere,"  27. 

218.  Moliere,  Jean   Baptiste   Poque- 

"Mary  Stuart,"  277.  !»,  25,  27,  121,  127,  132,  182, 

"Marriage  Proposal,  The,"  See  IO4.  305 ;   Zon  Theatre,  278, 

"PROPOSAL,  THE."  326. 

"Maskarad,"  219.  Monodrama,  203,  221,  226-244, 

Massalitinoff,    Nikolai   Ossipo-  257-261. 

vitch,  21,  23,  53,  58,  69,  78,  "Month  in  the  Country,  A,"  22, 

265.  27,  70-71,  267. 

Maximoff,  V.  V.,  126,  276.  Moosan,  283. 

"May  Night,"  183.  Mordkin,   Mihail   Mihailovitch, 

338 


Index 


2,  98-99,  111-115,  162,  169, 
177,  276,  309. 

Moscow,  Armenian  Studio, 
271 ;  Bat,  The,  see  Moscow, 
Letutchaya  Muish,  and  Bali- 
eff's  Chauve-Souris;  Bren- 
ko's  Pushkin  Theatre,  122; 
English  Club,  129,  282;  First 
State  Theatre  for  Children, 
281-282;  Free  Theatre,  136- 
137,  145,  147,  315;  Great 
State  Theatre,  5,  8,  20,  96- 
97.  99-io6,  in,  113-115,  118, 
120,  194,  199,  202,  275,  280, 
292 ;  Jewish  Kamerny  Thea- 
tre, 283-284;  Jewish  Studio, 
271 ;  Kamerny  Theatre,  2,  4- 
5,  10,  28,  135-179,  199,  203, 
247,  255-256, 264.  271-275,  278, 
282,  295,  319,  328;  Kpmmis- 
sarzhevskaya  Memorial  The- 
atre, 5,  180-195,  199;  Letut- 
chaya Muish,  5-7,  196-200, 
264,  293 ;  Literary  and  Artis- 
tic Circle,  123,  226;  Metro- 
pole  Hotel,  100;  Moscow 
Art  Theatre,  2-6,  8-9,  13-94, 
119,  121,  127-128,  132-133, 
141,  144,  146-147,  149,  177, 

196-199,  2OI-202,  2O4,  2l8, 
247-250,  252-254,  256-258, 
265-268,  271-272,  276,  278, 
285,  294-295,  297-298,  300- 
302,  305-307,  315,  322-323, 

328;  Moscow  Art  Theatre, 
Studios  of,  16-17,  21,  24,  80- 
94,  215-216,  258,  265,  268- 
272,  284,  300-301,  328;  Mos- 
cow Dramatic  Theatre,  5, 
137,  277;  Moscow  Theatre 
of  the  Communistic  Drama, 
279;  New  State  Theatre, 
281 ;  Skobelieff  Square,  83, 
268;  Small  Imperial  Theatre, 
see  Moscow,  SMALL  STATE 
THEATRE;  Small  State  Thea- 
tre, 5,  8,  17,  61,  64,  72,  loo, 


152,  194,  199,  202, 
204,  257,  276-277,  294,  328; 
Studio  Theatre  Gabima,283- 
284;  Theatre  Korsha,  5,  no, 
122-123,  200,  277;  Theatre 
Nezlobina,  100,  116,  173,  194, 
278-279,  281,  293 ;  Theatre  of 
Comedy  and  Melodrama, 
281;  Theatre  of  Operetta, 
279 ;  Theatre  Place,  6,  18,  79, 
99-100,  120;  Theatre  of  Rev- 
olutionary Satire,  279 ;  Thea- 
tre of  the  Soviet  of  Work- 
men's Deputies,  2,  5,  20,  III- 
114,  194;  Triumphalnaya 
Ploshchad,  268,  270;  Youzh- 
ny's  Variety  Theatre,  116, 
201 ;  Zimina  Opera,  5,  113, 
194,  305;  Zon  Theatre,  278, 
280,  293. 

Moskvin,  Ivan  Mihailovitch, 
21-22,  53,  57-58,  68,  72,  78, 
267. 

Motchaloff,  P.  S.,  120,  131- 
132,  257. 

"Mother,"  198-199. 

"Mowgli,"  282. 

Murray,  T.  C,  186. 

"Music  in  the  Sky,  The,"  148. 

Musical   Comedy,  195. 

Musorgsky,  Modest  Petrovitch, 
218,  282. 

Muzil,   132. 

"Mystery-Bouffee,"  280. 

"Na      Dnye."      See      "LOWER 

DEPTHS,  THE." 
"Nachtasyl."        See       "LOWER 

DEPTHS,  THE." 
Naidenoff,  A.,  26. 
Napoleon  Bonaparte,  260. 
Nazimova,   Alia,    161,   200-201, 

306. 

"New  Theatre,"  100,  120. 
New    York,    Apollo    Theatre, 

313 ;  Century  Roof  Theatre, 

320;    Century   Theatre,   311; 


339 


Index 


Criterion  Theatre,  306 ; 
Daly's  Theatre,  308;  Forty- 
Niners,  The,  322;  Forty 
Ninth  Street  Theatre,  320; 
Garden  Theatre,  316;  Herald 
Square  Theatre,  299;  Jewish 
Art  Theatre,  313,  315; 
Knickerbocker  Theatre,  298- 
299 ;  Manhattan  Opera 
House,  1 13 ;  Metropolitan 
Opera  House,  308-309,  311, 
3I3-3IS;  Neighborhood  Play- 
house, 300-302 ;  Plymouth 
Theatre,  299;  Princess  The- 
atre, 306;  Thalia  Thea- 
tre, 309;  Theatre  Guild,  284- 
285,  299,  303;  Victoria  Thea- 
tre, 299;  Washington  Square 
Players,  301-303 ;  Yiddish 
Art  Theatre,  283. 

New  York  Times,  The, 
318. 

Nicholas  I,  Tsar,  207. 

Nietzsche,  Friedrich  Wilhelm, 
69,  224. 

"Night  Birds,"  123-124, 

"Night  Hops,"  183,  225. 

"Nightingale,  The,"  282. 

"Night's  Lodging,  A."  See 
"LOWER  DEPTHS,  THE." 

"Nikolai  Stavrogin,"  27,  72. 

Nikulina,  132. 

Nizhinsky,  Vaslaff,  104,  311- 
312- 

"Nju,"  313- 

North,  Christopher.  See  WIL- 
SON, JOHN. 

"Notes  of  a  Regisseur,"  272. 

Novikoff,  115,  284. 

Novoe  Vremya,  224. 

Novy  Satirikon,  319. 

"Nude  on  the  Stage,  The," 
225-226. 

"Nursery  Rhymes,"  282. 

Nyemirovitch-Dantchenko,  Vla- 
dimir Ivanovitch,  4,  16-17, 
21,  59-60,  249,  253,  322. 


"Nyesnakomka."  See  "STAR, 
THE." 

"Oiseau     de     Feu,     L'."    See 

"FIRE  BIRD,  THE." 
"On  the  Art  of  the  Theatre," 

228. 

O'Neill,  Eugene  G.,  275. 
"Orestes,"  5. 
Oriental  Theatre,  327. 
Orlienieff,   Pavel  N.,  161,  200- 

201,  278,  306. 
"Orpheus,"  218. 
Ostrovsky,  Alexander  Nikolai- 

evitch,  ii,  24,  26-27,  64,  120- 

121,     124,     127,     132-133,     l82, 
219,    223,   267-268,   277,   308. 

"Our   Family,"   270. 
Ozyoroff,  Vladislas,  182. 

"PAN,"  181,  183,  189. 

Pantomime,  144,  147,  151,  177- 
179. 

Paris,  Comedie  Franfaise,  132; 
Opera-Comique,  315;  The- 
atre Femina,  319. 

"Pasha  and  the  Bear,  The," 
282. 

Paskar,  Mme.,  282. 

"Paul  I,"  5,  II. 

Payloff,  Policarp  Arsenievitch, 
84,  265. 

Pavlova,  Anna  P.,  17,  98,  106, 
108-112,  115,  169,  309. 

"Peer  Gynt,"  27,  147,  315. 

"Pelleas  and  Melisande,"  218. 

"Pentecost  at  Toledo,  The," 
138,  144- 

"Perfumes  of  Happiness,  The," 
148. 

Petrograd,  Alexandmnsky  The- 
atre, lo-n,  16,  60,  123,  204, 
207-215,  218-219,  224,  276; 
Crooked  Looking-Glass,  The, 
ii,  225-227;  Dramatic  Thea- 
tre of  Vera  Kommissarzhevs- 
kaya,  193,  218,  225-226;  Gay 


340 


Index 


Theatre  for  Grown-up  Chil- 
dren, The,  225,  228 ;  Gostinny 
Dvor,  207;  Krivoye  Zerkalo, 
see  PETROGRAD,  CROOKED 
LOOKING-GLASS,  THE;  Liteiny 
Theatre,  u,  228;  Marinsky 
Theatre,  10-11,  96-97,  99,  106, 
204-205,  213,  218-219,  224, 
228,  276;  Mihailovsky  Thea- 
tre, ii ;  Musical  Drama,  n; 
Narodny  Dom,  n,  117;  Nev- 
sky  Prospekt,  207-208 ;  New 
Theatre,  224;  Old  Theatre, 
224-225,  227,  315;  Palace 
Theatre,  226;  Small  Theatre, 
224,  228;  Starinny  Teatr, 
see  PETROGRAD,  OLD  THEATRE  ; 
Stray  Dog,  The,  145;  Studio 
of  the  Impressionists,  The, 
227;  Theatre  Club,  The,  226; 
Theatre  Nezlobina,  n,  228; 
Theatre  Saburova,  1 1 ; 
Workers'  Theatre,  n,  Work- 
shop Theatre,  11. 

"Petrushka,"  xi,  66,  97,  103, 
118,  311. 

"Phcdre,"  272-273. 

"Picture  of  Dorian  Grey,  The," 
281. 

Piero  di  Cosimo,  246. 

"Pierrot  the  Prodigal,"  179. 

"Pillars  of  Society,"  26. 

Pisemsky,  Alexei  Feofilacto- 
vitch,  25. 

"Playboy  of  the  Western 
World,  The,"  138. 

"Plays  of  the  Natural  and  the 
Supernatural,"  261. 

"Plutus,"   224. 

Podgorny,  Nikolai  Afanasie- 
vitch,  265. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  329. 

Potiehin,  Alexei  Antipovitch, 
123. 

"Power  of  Darkness,  The,"  5, 
26,  299. 

"Power  of  Magic,  The,"  223. 


Pravdin,    Ossip    Andreievitch, 

17,  125-126,  132,  276. 
"Prince  Igor,"  xi,  311,  315,  317. 
"Princess  Brambilla,"  273. 
"Princess   Maleine,   The,"   315. 
"Pro  Scena  Sua,"  227. 
"Prodigal  Son,  The,"  26. 
Prokofieff,  Sergei  Sergeievitch, 

98. 
Proletarian     Drama,     280-281, 

288. 
Propaganda    in    the    Theatre, 

279,  295. 

"Proposal,  The,"  90,  301. 
Pshibuishevsky,  Stanislaff,  218, 

233- 

Puccini,  Giacomo,  205. 

Puni,  105. 

Pushkin,  Alexander  Sergeie- 
vitch, II,  22,  24,  26-27,  90-92, 
119,  130-131,  133,  I98-I99. 
213,  219. 

"QUEEN,  THE,"  183. 
"Queen  of  the  May,"  219. 

RABINOVITCH,  J.,  284. 

Racine,  Jean,  273-274. 

"Rape  of  the  Sabine  Women, 
The."  See  "BEAUTIFUL  SA- 
BINE WOMEN,  THE." 

"Raymonda,"  98. 

Realism,  3,  27-29,  45-48,  64,  71- 
72,  84,  93,  loo,  124,  141-142, 
181,  203,  205,  215-216,  218, 
248-255,  323-324,  327. 

"Red   Tavern,   The,"  218. 

"Redemption."  See  "LIVING 
CORPSE,  THE." 

"Rehearsal,  The,"  223. 

Reid,  Thomas  Mayne,  222. 

"Reine  Fiamette,  La,"  314. 

Reinhardt,  Max,  284,  307. 

Remisoff,  Nicolas,  xi,  319. 

Remizoff,  Alexei  Mihailovitch, 
183,  282. 

Renaissance  Theatre,  209, 


34* 


Index 


Repertory  system,  10,  24-25,  58, 

81,  127,  200. 
"Representation  of  Love,  The," 

226-227,  231-244. 
"Requiem,"  5,   183. 
"Resurrection,"  299. 
"Revisor."       See     "INSPECTOR 

GENERAL,  THE." 
Revolution,  Bolshevik,  1-3,  14, 

19,  95-97,  112,  121,  126,  135, 

140,  180,  204,  262,  280. 
Revolution    of    1905,    25,    302, 

306-307- 
Revolution  of  March,  1917,  25, 

95-97,  "3,  126,  133,  263- 

Reyzen,   in. 

Ribakoff,    132. 

Ribot,  Theodule  Armand,  240. 

"Richard   III,"  277. 

"Riders  to  the  Sea,"  90. 

Rimsky-Korsakoff,  Nikolai  An- 
dreievitch,  II,  219,  223,  313. 

"Robbers,  The,"  223. 

Robinson,  Lennox,  186. 

Rodin,  Auguste,  246. 

"Rod ion,  the  Student,"  300. 

Roerich,  Nicolas,  xi,  315. 

Rolland,  Remain,  277. 

"Romeo  and  Juliet,"  273. 

"Rose  and  the  Cross,  The,"  29, 
266. 

"Rosmersholm,"  26. 

Rosovsky,  283. 

Rossi,  207. 

Rossignol,  Le,  206. 

Rostand,  Edmond,  138,  293. 

Rouche,  Jacques,  32. 

Rumiantseff,  Nikolai  Alexan- 
drovitch,  16,  21,  323. 

"Russian  Ceremonial  Theatre, 
The,"  229-230. 

Russian  Grand  Opera  Com- 
pany, 321. 

Russian  Theatre  in  America, 
ix,  266,  284-286,  296-324. 

"Russian  Theatrical  Decora- 
tive Art,"  229. 


"Rustling  Leaves,"  123. 
Ryabsteff,  V.  A.,  115-116,  198. 

"SACRE    DU    PRINTEMPS."    See 

"CROWNING  OF  SPRING,  THE." 
Sadovskaya,    O.    O.,    126,    132, 

276. 
Sadovsky,   Proff.   Mihailovitch, 

132. 

Sadovsky  II,   132. 
Sadovsky  III,  P.  M.,  126. 
St.  Gaudens,  Augustus,  329. 
St.     Louis,     Little     Playhouse, 

170. 

"Sakuntala,"  137,  147,  255-256. 
"Salome,"   2,   4,    126-127,    140, 

143,    147,    151-164,    170,    173, 

176,  225,  256,  273-274,  328. 
Saltuikoff-Shchedrin,        Mihail 

Yevgrafovitch,  27,  72. 
Salzmann,  150. 
Samarin,  132. 

"Samson  and  Delilah,"  316. 
Sapunoff,      Nikolai     Nikolaie- 

vitch,  219. 

Sargent,  John  S.,  329. 
Sats,  Ilya   Alexandrovitch,   38, 

144- 

"Sawa,"  n,  303. 
Sayler,  Lucie  R.,  xi. 
Scarborough    (N.   Y.),   Beech- 
wood  Players,  303. 
Schiller,      Johann      Christoph 

Friedrich  von,  124,  133,  277. 
Schnitzler,  Arthur,  u. 
"School   for   Husbands,  The," 

127. 
"School    of    the    Stars,    The," 

229. 
Scribe,  Augustin  Eugene,   125, 

127,  272,  282. 
"Sea  Gull,  The,"  17,  25,  29,  46, 

59-61.  218,  266,  301,  303. 
Senigoff.  G.  I.,  223. 
"Serf  Actors,"  226. 
"Sergei  Satiloff,"  123. 
Sevastopol,  61. 


Index 


Shagal,  Marc,  284. 
Shakespeare,     William,   6,    17, 

25-27,  84-89,  93,  120-121,  124- 

125,    127,    133-134,    139,   273, 

277- 

Shakovskoy,  270. 
Shaliapin,    Fyodor    Ivanovitch, 

2,  117,  263,  284,  297,  305,  307, 

3i6,   318,   323- 
Shaw,  George  Bernard,  277. 
Shchedrin,      Mihail      Yevgraf- 

ovitch.      See       SALTUIKOFF- 

SHCHEDRIN,     MIHAIL     YEV- 

GRAFOVITCH. 
Shchepkin,     Mihail     Semyono- 

vitch,  120,  131-132,  257. 
Shchepkina,  A.  L.,  126. 
"Sheherazade,"  103,  311. 
Shelley,     Percy    Bysshe,    277- 

278. 
Shervashidze,    Prince    A.    K., 

219. 

Shumsky,  126,  132. 
"Sicilian,  The,"  182. 
Simoff,   138. 
Simonson,  Lee,  299. 
'"Singing  Birds,  The,"  267. 
"Sister  Beatrice,"  218. 
"Sleeping   Beauty,   The,"    103- 

104,   107,   109. 
"Smoke,"  71. 
"Smug   Citizens,"   26,   62,   303, 

307. 
Smuishlyaieff,     Valentin     Ser- 

geievitch,  24,  93. 
"Snow   Maiden,   The,"    n,   26, 

219,  3I4-3I5- 
"Snyegurotchka."    See    "Snow 

MAIDEN,  THE." 
Sobinoff,  L.  V.,  101-103. 
"Soleil  de  Nuit,"  311. 
Sologub,  Fyodor  (Fyodor  Kuz- 

mitch  Teternikoff),  181,  183, 

186-189,  218-219,  225. 
Solovyova,    Vera    Vassilievna, 

93- 


"Some  Observations  of  Art  in 

America,"  327-328. 
Sophocles,  25. 
"Sorrows  of  the  Spirit,  The," 

5,  26,  71,  123,  127-130,  328. 
Sothern,  Edward  H.,  300. 
Soviet,  2,  103,  113-114,  220,  275- 

281,    283-284,    287-288,    290- 

292,  294-295. 

Spanish  Theatre,  208-209,  326. 
"Sportsman's  Notebook,  A,"  71. 
Stahovitch,  Alexei  Alexandro- 

vitch,  21,  84,  269. 
Stanislavsky,    Constantin    Ser- 

geievitch,  3-6,  9,  I3J-I7,  20-24, 

.27-29,    31-44,^50,    52-53,    56, 

59,  68-71,  ,So-8i,   83-84,  93-, 

94,    119^   146-147*,  181,    194, 

201-203,    218,    247-250^-^52- 
•255V257,   263,   270-271,    278, 

300,  322. 
Stanley,    Sir    Henry    Morton, 

223. 

"Star,   The,"  313. 
Stekloff,  N.,  289. 
"Stenka  Razin,"  280. 
Stolitsa,    Liuboff,    5,    139,    170, 

199- 
"Stone  Guest,  The,"  22,  91-92, 

213,  219. 

Strauss,  Richard,  219,  312. 
Stravinsky,  Igor,  66,  97,  99,  206, 

213,  257. 

Strindberg,  August,  268,  270. 
"Styopik  and  Manyourotchka," 

224. 

"Such  a  Woman,"  224,  227-229. 
Sudermann,  Hermann,  308. 
Sudeykin,    Sergei    Y.,   xi,    138, 

143,  219,  319. 
Suhatcheva,  Y.  G.,  88,  93. 
Sumbatoff,    Prince    Alexander 

Ivanovitch,    10,   17,  61,   121- 

126,    128,    132-134,   247,    257, 

276-277,  294. 
"Sunken  Bell,  The,"  25. 


343 


Index 


"Supper  of  Jokes,  The,"  139. 
Surgutchoff,  27,  71. 
Sushkyevitch,     Boris    Mihailo- 

•vitch,  21,  84. 
Svoboda,  115. 
"Swan  Lake,"  103,  109. 
"Swan  Song,  The,"  90,  301. 
"Sweet  Cake,"  226. 
Synge,  John  Millington,  59,  63, 

90,  138,  256. 

TAIROFF,  ALEXANDER  YAKOV- 
LEVITCH,  9-10,  28,  137,  140, 
143,  I45-M6,  148,  150,  163- 

164,     173-174,     177,     179,     202, 
204,      247,     2S5-256,     272-274, 

278. 

"Tale  of  Ivanushka,  the  Stupid, 

The,"  269. 

"Tamar,"  97,  103,  311. 
Taneyeff,  Sergei  Ivanovitch,  5. 
Tarasoff,   Ivan,  310. 
Tarasova,  Alia  Constantinovna, 

94,  269. 

Tardoff,  Vladimir,  121,  203. 
Tarnovsky,   132. 
Tchaikovsky.   Peter   Ilyitch,  8, 

ii,  103-105,  107,  109,  281. 
Tcheban,  Alexei  Ivanovitch,  43. 
Tchehoff,     Anton     Pavlovitch, 

4-5,   14,   17-18,  23-26,  45-64, 

69,  72,  81,  90,  132,  179,  199, 

218,   249,    256,    266,   269-270, 

303,    328. 
Tchehoff,     Mihail     Alexandro- 

vitch,  24,  93,  267-268. 
Tchirikoff,  26. 
"Teatr     dlya     Syebya."      See 

"THEATRE   FOR    ONE'S    SELF, 

THE." 
"Teatr     kak     Takavoi."     See 

"THEATRE   AS    SUCH,   THE." 
Teheran,   130. 
Terry,  Ellen,  oo. 
Teternikoff,  Fyodor  Kuzmitch. 

See  SOLOGUB,  FYODOR. 


"Thamira  of  the  Cithern,"  139, 

163-169. 

"Theatre,  The,"  313. 
Theatre  and  Art,  The,  1-2. 
Theatre  Arts  Magazine,  xi. 
"Theatre  as  Such,  The,"  227. 
"Theatre  for  One's  Self,  The," 

221,  228-229,  258-260. 
"Theatre   of   the    Soul,    The," 

See     "GREENROOM     OF     THE 

SOUL,  THE." 
"Theatre  of  Tomorrow,  The," 

xi. 

Theatre  Mobile,  The,  145. 
Theatre  Theatrical,  3,  100,  141- 

143.   203,   205,   208-217,   250, 

254-255.  313. 

Theatrical  Gazette,  The,  1-2. 
"Theatrical  Preludes,"  194. 
"There  Will  Be  Joy,"  27. 
"They  Who  Take  the  Law  into 

Their   Hands,"  25. 
"Thought,"  27. 
"Three  Sisters,  The,"  4-5,   14, 

17-18,  23,  26,  32,  45-46,  48- 

56,    58-59,   62,   64,   218,   266, 

303. 

"Three  Sorcerers,"  227. 
"Three  Wise  Men,  The,"  315. 
"Thunderstorm,  The,"   n,  127, 

219. 
"Tidings     Brought    to    Mary, 

The."    See  "ANNONCE  FAITE 

A  MARIE,  L'." 
Tiflis,  126,  224,  276. 
"Til  Eulenspiegel,"  312. 
Toensfeldts,  The,  170. 
Tolstoy,  Count  Alexei  Nikol?i- 

evitch,     22,     24-25,    208-299, 

301. 
Tolstoy,  Count  Lyoff  Nikolaie- 

vitch,    5,    24,    26-27,    30,    68, 

127,  218,  209,  301,  303. 
"Tom   Sawyer,"  282. 
"Torchbearers,  The,"  295. 
Treugolnik.    See  TRIANGLE. 


344 


Index 


Triangle,  226. 

"Tristan  and  Isolde,"  218,  315. 
"Triumph  of  Death,  The,"  218. 
"Truth  Is  Good  but  Luck  Is 

Better,"   127. 
Tsar,  95-98,  206,  220. 
"Tsar  Fyodor  Ivanovitch,"  22, 

25,  60,  298. 
"Tsar  Ivan  IV,"  123. 
Tseretelli,      Nikolai      Mihailo- 

vitch,  140,  149,  155,   161-162, 

272. 

"Turandot,"   194,   270. 
Turgenieff,    Ivan    Sergeievitch, 

22,  24,  27,  64,  69-71,  267-268. 
Twain,  Mark,  282. 
"Twelfth   Night,"    17,   25,   84- 

89,  93,  328. 
"Two  Worlds,"  139. 
Tyler,    George,   322. 

"UNALTERABLE  TREASON,    227. 
"Uncle  Vanya,"  25,  59,  61-62, 

303. 
"Unknown  Woman,  The."    See 

"STAR,  THE." 
Uraloff,  I.  M.,  204,  267. 
Uraneff,  Vadim,  313. 
"Uriel  Acosta,"  283. 

VAKHTANGOFF,  YEVGENY,  269- 

270,  284. 
Vanity  Fair,  xi. 
"Vanka  the   Butler  and   Page 

Jean,"  181,  183,  186-189,  225. 
Varieties,    195. 
Vassilenko,  282. 
Vassilieva,  132. 
"Vassilisa    Melientieva,"    127. 
Vega   Carpio,   Lope   Felix   de, 

133,  326- 
"Veil  of  Pierrette,  The,"  139, 

144,   147,  273-274. 
Veiter,  283. 

"Verre  d'Eau,  Le,"  125,  127. 
Viesnin,  273-274. 
"Village  Stepantchikovo,  The," 

2,  4,  18,  27,  72-79. 


"Virgin  Soil,"  71. 
Vishnevsky,  Alexander  Leoni- 

dovitch,  23,  53,  69. 
"Voevoda"  127. 
Volinin,  Alexander,  310. 
Voltaire,   Francois   Marie  Ar- 

ouet  de,  183. 
Vvedensky,  Arsenius,  224. 

WAGNER,    WILHELM    RICHARD, 

218. 

Wallace,  Alfred  Russel,  247. 
"Walls,  The,"  26. 
Walsh,  Blanche,  299. 
"Wandering  Jew,  The,"  284. 
"War,"  224. 
Wavitch,  319. 
Weber,  Andrei,  xii. 
Weber,     Andrei     Yegorovitch, 

xii,   13,  120-121. 
Weber,  Giorgi,  xii. 
"Wedding,  The,"  215-216. 
Wedekind,  Frank,  183,  218. 
"Werther,"   271. 
"When    We    Dead    Awaken," 

26. 
"Where  It  Is  Thin,  There  It 

Tears,"  70. 
Whistler,    James   A.    McNeill, 

246,  329. 

Whitman,  Walt,  329. 
"Wild  Duck,  The,"  26,  62. 
Wilde,    Oscar,    2,    6,    126-127, 

140,    143,    147,    152-164,   225, 

274,  281. 

"Wilhelm  Tell,"  278. 
Wilson,  John,  91. 
"Witch,  The,"  90. 
"Wolves  and  Sheep,"  127. 
Woollcott,  Alexander,  318. 
World's     Columbian     Exposi- 
tion, 116. 

YABLOTCHKINA,  A.  A.,  126. 
Yakuloff,  Sergei,  270,  273. 
Yale  University  Dramatic  As- 
sociation, 300. 


345 


Index 


Yalta,  60-62. 

Yarovoff,  Nikolai,  264,  288- 
292,  295. 

Yartseff,   P.,  26. 

Yavorsky,  L.  V.,  224. 

Yegoroff,  V.  Y.,  32. 

"Yekaterina  Ivanovna,"  27. 

"Yellow  Jacket,  The,"   147. 

Yermolova,  M.  M.,  126,  132, 
277. 

"Yevgeny  Onyegin,"  n,  271. 

Yevreynoff,  Nikolai  Nikolaie- 
vitch,  II,  141,  202-203,  205- 
206,  221-244,  247,  257-261, 
278,  300-301,  315,  325. 


Yevreynova,  Natalia  Nikolai- 
evna,  222. 

Youshkyevitch,  S.,  27,  218. 

Youzhin,  Alexander  Ivanovitch. 
See  SUMBATOFF,  PRINCE  AL- 
EXANDER IVANOVITCH. 

Yus,  Victor,  291. 

ZHDANOVA,     MARIA     ALEXAN- 

DROVNA,  23,   53. 

Zhivokiny,  132. 
Zhukoff,   115,  276. 
Zimin,  S.  I.,  113. 
Znamensky,   267. 
Zvereff,  Nikolai,  310. 


346 


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